The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers (45 page)

While Chegory ate, the others thought, but at meal’s end they were none the wiser.

‘We lack sufficient data for precise analysis,’ said Ivan Pokrov. ‘We must send a mission to the mainland, if only to gather additional data.’

‘No,’ said Chegory flatly. ‘We’ll go to the city to kill V arazchavardan. ’

Everyone looked at him. A declaration of intent to murder had been Chegory’s first reaction to the situation. Now, after enjoying a good meal and thinking about it, his intent was exactly the same. Just what one would expect from an Ebrell Islander! No attempt to dialogue the situation. No thoughts of compromise or negotiation. No suggestion of sending an embassy of sorts to talk things through with their enemy. No, none of that. Just an immediate vote for murder.

This is hardly surprising, for on the Ebrells the typical instruments of conflict resolution tend to be edged weapons. Though Chegory had been born and raised on Untunchilamon, he had nevertheless been raised in the cultural tradition of the Ebrells.

What is surprising is that after some discussion, all agreed Chegory’s plan to be sound, reasonable and rational. Odolo, graced with intimate acquaintance with Binchinminfin, thought it an excellent idea. Uckermark, for his part, could certainly think of nothing better. Even Ivan Pokrov, that determined student of the rational, could devise no scheme more sophisticated.

‘But,’ said Ivan Pokrov, ‘let’s not risk our own lives in the attempt.’

‘Nobody else is likely to help us,’ said Uckermark.

‘Oh, I beg to differ,’ said Pokrov. ‘I can think of one group of people who might be very willing to help.’

He explained.

‘That’s too dangerous!’ said Odolo. ‘They might prove enemies rather than friends!’

‘You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,’ said Uckermark.

‘I don’t want to,’ said Odolo.

He was in no state for heroics. He was bruised, battered and exhausted in both body and psyche.

‘Then stay here,’ said Pokrov, ‘and the rest of us will go.’ ‘You?’ said Chegory. ‘You’ll come with us?’

‘To help negotiate with our intended friends,’ said Pokrov. ‘And... and perhaps to see this demon-thing. My curiosity, you see, is excited.’

Thus it was decided. Uckermark, Ivan Pokrov and Chegory Guy would venture to Injiltaprajura to seek help for a war against Varazchavardan. Soon, suitably equipped with weapons, they were on their way.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Jod’s heroes sweated through the hot night to Uckermark’s corpse shop where Yilda and Log Jaris greeted them with urgent demands for information. After hearing lengthy explanations, all voiced at something close to a shout as a concession to Yilda’s deafness, Log Jaris declared that he would join the expedition to the pink palace. ‘And I!’ said Yilda. But her mate forbade it, thus precipitating a row. Thanks to the support of all the males present, Uckermark triumphed over his woman in argument - a rare occurrence indeed.

Then the corpse master extracted a bottle of a queer purple fluid from a secret cabinet. It glowed in the candlelight with an evil, eldritch phosphorescence. It was Dragonfire, a form of that carcinogenic poison known as alcohol, and it was surpassed in potency only by the firewater of the Ebrell Islands. Rough stuff indeed!

‘This should sweeten the temper of our demon-dealing friends,’ said Uckermark.

As gifts go, this one was truly extravagant, for the glass bottle alone was worth more than most people earnt in a month. But they had to do everything possible to win the wonderworkers as allies in their war against Varazchavardan. The sorcerers must be persuaded that, the Master of Law was indeed possessed by the demon Binchinminfin, and must therefore be destroyed to force the delinquent demon back to the World Beyond.

Forth went the heroes, forth through the streets of night where massive bloodclot shadows loomed in every doorway. The night was hot and humid - and preternaturally peaceful. Shuttered silence guarded many a window which would usually have been alive with lamplight and laughter.

All Injiltaprajura knew that something untoward was going on and the city had battened down as if to meet a hurricane.

Our heroes quested through this ominous atmosphere to the Cabal House: and found it closed against them. A mirbane balefire was burning bright atop the building, summoning all the sorcerers of Injiltaprajura to ingather. Judging by the raucous uproar coming from the upper rooms, those worthies had ingathered indeed.

‘It sounds like a party,’ said Uckermark as he knocked on the door.

There was no response, so Uckermark used his boot. The door hummed, glowed yellow, belched sulphur, then darkened to silence. He kicked again. This time the door maintained a stolid impassivity. As the corpse master attacked the door yet again, Log Jaris turned and walked away.

'Where are you going?’ said Chegory in bewilderment.

But the bullman walked on without looking back. Uckermark, ignoring his comrade’s retreat, continued to assault the door. Then Chegory Guy joined him, for the young Ebrell Islander could resist the temptation no longer. Chegory displayed such enthusiasm for kicking, thumping and hammering that Uckermark left him to continue the attack alone. The corpse master himself stepped back and bawled at the top of his voice:

‘Come out of there, you turd-spawned dog-eaters!’

Sounds of drunken singing floated down from above, but if Uckermark was heard he was ignored. So he began to harangue the sky-dwellers at length. Half a thousand obscenities later, Chegory abandoned his attempts to break down the door.

‘This is useless,’ said he, wiping an abundance of sweat from his feverish brow. ‘We’ll never get through this.’

‘I think we will,’ said Log Jaris, returning from his travels with a sledgehammer slung over his shoulders.

Without further ado, the bullman began to smash down the door to the Cabal House.

‘I don’t know that this is entirely wise,’ said Ivan Pokrov, who possessed all a good citizen’s inhibitions against vandalism in full force.

‘Then you know what you can do with wisdom,’ said Log Jaris.

He swung the sledgehammer again. One of the door timbers cracked.

‘Ores!’ screamed a terror-stricken voice within. ‘There are ores without!’

‘Yes, ores!’ roared Log Jaris. ‘Big huge hulking ores with bloodstained teeth! Coming to eat you up!’

Sounds of panic ensued. Then faded. Whatever sorcerers were guarding the door had fled.

‘Gutless wonders,’ muttered Log Jaris.

Then he wrecked the door entirely and stormed inside, closely followed by Uckermark and Chegory Guy. Ivan Pokrov lingered outside, for, though the analytical engineer had felt wildly brave and courageous on Jod, he had survived for many millennia by not taking unnecessary risks, and in immortals such old habits die particularly hard.

Pokrov’s reckless companions found the ground floor of the Cabal House deserted but for the heavy odours of incense and sulphur. Log Jaris led an unopposed assault which swiftly took the heroes to the heights. There they found the sorcerers, who had broken out their supplies of alchemical alcohol ages ago, and were all thoroughly drunk. One, more sober than the others, questioned the intruders. Thus:

‘What are you doing here?’

Chegory knew this sorcerer. It was Nixorjapretzel Rat, Varazchavardan’s erstwhile apprentice.

‘We’re here seeking help,’ said Log Jaris.

‘Piss off,’ said Rat.

‘In case you don’t know,’ said Uckermark, ‘a demon, Binchinminfin by name, has taken possession of your master Aquitaine Varazchavardan.’

‘He’s my master no longer,’ said the drunken Rat. ‘I graduated to sorcerer last year.’

‘The hell with your quibbling!’ said Uckermark. ‘Are you listening to me? There’s a demon, a—’

‘We know, we know,’ said Rat. ‘We know all about that. It may mean the end of Untunchilamon. It may mean the end of the world.’

‘Why?’ said Chegory. ‘It’s, um, only a demon, okay? We can take it, gang up on it, right?’

‘You don’t understand,’ said Rat. Weeping fat tears of fear, grief and self-pity. ‘The demons have scant sense of self-discipline. The Grand Treaty of the High Consenting Powers has long been endangered—’

‘Oh, stop babbling!’ said Uckermark, with impatient anger. ‘What are you on about? Talk straight sense!’

‘I mean,’ said the young and still-blubbering sorcerer, ‘when one demon disrupts, others will likewise.’

‘What means this in-house argot?’ said Log Jaris. ‘Are you trying to tell us that other demons will do as Binchinminfin has?’

A sorcerer older, wiser and more articulate tottered over to them and said:

‘As a single ringleader can make a mob from an honest crowd, so a single delinquent demon can rouse the jealous mass of his fellows to actions criminal, even though demons and sorcerers alike know the destruction of the very world would follow. Every head in the city may house a demon by this time tomorrow morning. If so, then the world will end the day after.’

‘Then what are you going to do about it?’ said Uckermark with contempt. ‘Drink yourself into oblivion? Or what?’

‘We’re working on it,’ said the older sorcerer.

Evidendy he meant they were working on getting drunker, for he turned away and seized the nearest flask of alcohol, clearly intending to do just that.

‘Rat!’ said Uckermark. ‘We’re going to the palace to take on this demon. You’re coming with us!’

‘I’m doing no such thing!’ said Rat, who had no taste for suicide. ‘Back! Back, I say! Or I’ll turn you into a frog!’

Then Rat raised his hands and cried out in a high and hideous voice. One of Uckermark’s boots promptly turned itself into a frog. As the corpse master’s weight was bearing down on it at the time, the boot’s unexpected incarnation as a web-footed amphibian was chiefly notable for its brevity.

‘Come on,’ said Log Jaris. ‘Let’s be going.’

Nixorjapretzel Rat was raising his hands again. Was crying out. The heroes hastened toward the stairs. Fire flashed toward them. They ducked, and fled.

They halted, panting, at the first landing. The young and relentless Rat was standing at the head of the stairs, his hands raised yet again. He spoke in a high, sibilant voice. The air wavered. A good half-dozen stones directly above the heroes converted themselves to butter. One of these stones was the keystone of an arch.

‘Oh shit!’ said Uckermark.

Then led the retreat, taking eight stairs at a single leap. Behind the heroes, stones creaked. Then, with a roar, the arch collapsed. Fragments of rock pursued them at the rattle. When the heroes halted at the bottom and looked back, they saw the stonefall had sealed off the stairway.

Untunchilamon’s wonderworkers were, to a man, trapped in the Cabal House.

‘Borgan!’ said Log Jaris.

Then, having voiced that obscenity, he led the way outside. Sounds of drunken singing still floated from the uppermost chambers of the Cabal House.

‘No joy?’ said Ivan Pokrov, who had waited patiently in the street all this time.

‘Well, we did learn something,’ said Uckermark, taking off his remaining boot since he thought it easier to walk barefoot than one-booted.

‘What?’ said Pokrov.

‘The demon Binchinminfin is definitely in possession of Varazchavardan. The sorcerers have told us as much. They also say that where one delinquent demon has gone a thousand may follow.’

‘Well,’ said Chegory, trying to sound brisk and brave. ‘That’s it, then, isn’t it? There’s, ah, well, only one thing for it. Go to the palace, that’s it, then it’s knifework, that’s the way, slaughter this demon man to man.’

But they did no such thing, for before they could do anything so brave or so foolish, Yilda came panting up the street toward them.

‘Come back!’ she said. ‘Back to the corpse shop! Now, now!’

‘Why?’ said Uckermark.

Once Yilda had got her breath back, she explained.

With explanations given, all hastened back to the corpse shop. They plunged in through the wide-open door and hastened to the backsquare courtyard. There a sun-shining bubble of light was lording it over a disreputable bunch of ill-assorted humans.

‘Hello, Shabble,’ said Log Jaris, who knew the demon of Jod of old. ‘What have you got for us?’

‘Prisoners!’ said Shabble, squeaking with excitement.

Prisoners indeed. Exhausted, haggard, nerve-shattered prisoners.

The unfortunates in question were Arnaut, Al-ran Lars, Tolon, Guest Gulkan, Thayer Levant, Pelagius Zozimus and Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin. After the encounter with the dorgi, Shabble had herded them through the interstices of the underworld until at last, after following a cautiously circuitous route, they had emerged into the starlight of Injiltaprajura by night. Then the demon of Jod had brought them to the corpse shop.

“You dare much by taking us captive,’ said Pelagius Zozimus.

Strong was the voice of the wizard of Xluzu and stern was his demeanour, for his pride would not let him confess to his dilapidated condition. In contrast, his cousin Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin looked to be at death’s door, and was mumbling incoherently in the quavering voice of an old man on the edge of senility.