The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers (50 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Dawn came to the island of Jod. The dark of night flowed into freshets of blood as the sky haemorrhaged. A bruised and bloated carbuncular sun oozed from the crimson horizon like a bloodclot incarnadine forced from a full-fist wound by slow but remorseless alluvial pressures. Red glowed the bloodstone of the streets of Injiltaprajura. Red was the brooding coral strand which fringed the Laitemata. Red were the beaches of Scimitar and red was the seaweed of the bloodstained lagoon.

But white was the Analytical Institute. The marvellous building uprose upon Jod like a cool confection of ice and snow, a manifest miracle in this mosquito-tormented clime of sweat remorseless and fevers oppressive.

Unfortunately, within this building of beauty was a scene of the utmost depravity. In Ivan Pokrov’s quarters a number of comatose bodies lay slumped in a stuporous sleep hard to distinguish from profound concussion. The owners of those bodies had given themselves to a profound, shameless debauch of the flesh. They had overindulged in obscene and poisonous drugs and were now suffering the consequences.

Among those who lay there as if dead were the wizards Pelagius Zozimus and Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin. Once their apprentice days are behind them wizards seldom get drunk, for when they become intoxicated these masters of the mirific run risks far greater than those faced by lesser beings. However, these two had got as thoroughly wasted as the rest of them.

Even the cutthroat Thayer Levant had drunk himself into a helpless stupor, despite his highly developed sense of self-preservation.

This was the scene which confronted a sober and bad-tempered Chegory Guy when he came in from the servants’ quarters where he had grabbed a little sleep in the last part of bardardornootha. He relieved his emotions by kicking everybody in sight. A few groans greeted this performance. But nobody was actually roused to consciousness by Chegory’s endeavours, and the groans were but sleeptalk complaints from the dim depths of drug-bewildered nightmares.

Then Chegory found Shabble, who was hiding in a fish tank, pretending to be a stone. Chegory grabbed hold of the feckless one. Shabble was cold and inert in his hand.

‘Wake up,’ said Chegory, tossing Shabble into the air.

The globular one described a perfect parabola. Plunged toward the floor. Then snapped into sun-bright life and swept upwards in a tight, flight-delighting spiral.

‘Hello, Chegory!’ said Shabble happily.

‘Hi.’ said Chegory' moodily.

Then picked up a scimitar which one of the sleepers had plundered from the pink palace the night before. While he waited for his comrades to rouse he practised a few head-lopping strokes.

Pelagius Zozimus was first to wake. He woke from force of habit. He was a master chef, after all, and one of the burdens of a cook’s life is the necessity to rise before long before others are awake. Think of this when next you seat yourself in your dining room to banquet upon that delicate concoction of snake’s eggs and the flesh of half a dozen different serpents which there awaits your delight. It didn’t get there by itself, you know!

[Those who are nauseated by the Originator’s casual references to the consumption of snakemeat and the eggs of snakes must remember that the Originator is not a Practitioner. While the Crime in question demands Final-isation whether one follows Religion or not, a lighthearted attitude toward the Crime is understandable (if not pardonable) in an alien atheist,
^.in Twee, Master of Religion.]

[With reference to Zin Twee’s comment above, it is not at all clear from the Text that the Originator is in fact an atheist. While some passages display a distressing impiety, nowhere is there a denial of the existence of Things Beyond. Despite the existence of a certain Passage in the Text which appears to denigrate blasphemously all Establishments, it is still possible that the Originator could be, to take a couple of examples, a worshipper of Evil (Pure or Applied) or a member of the Danatos Blood Cult.
Newt Gerund, Chief Pedant
.]

Habit is not the only reason why Zozimus woke. A baby, child of one of the female servants who dwelt on Jod, was bawling loudly. If there was one thing Zozimus found it impossible to sleep through it was the racket of a crying child.

Pelagius Zozimus hated babies.

That was one of the reasons why he had become a wizard. Not the sole reason, of course. He had been born and raised in Wen Endex, and in early youth had made a most shameful discovery about himself. He was an intellectual. There is no place for such in Wen Endex, where the Yudonic Knights rule by brute force and unthinking violence. Consequently, a disproportionate number of wizards come from that province, and from Galsh Ebrek in particular, despite the enormous difficulties of the pilgrimage from there to the castles of Argan’s Confederation of Wizards.

Pelagius Zozimus decided to wake the others, but when he acted on decision the task defeated him, just as it had defeated young Chegory Guy.

‘Right,’ muttered Zozimus. ‘I’ll at least make sure they stay awake once they do wake up.’

Then Zozimus, who was in a decidedly warlike mood, made the most ferocious curry imaginable. Into it went peppercorns complete, ground grey pepper of the Yellow Phoenix grade, the smouldering orange-brown of cayenne pepper (known also as dragon fire), a quantity of Five Heavenly Virtues Spice Powder, and last (but by no means least) an enormous amount of that curry powder known as Leaping Green Lizards’ Incendiary Delight.

A couple of the sleepers roused and were presented with the curry for breakfast. Naturally, none of them could eat it. Indeed, after a night of boozing they were scarcely in a condition to eat anything. Ivan Pokrov took one mouthful of the newborn dish which Zozimus had just birthnamed Wizard’s Revenge, turned a very funny colour, then withdrew. He did not return for some time. Even the barbarian Guest Gulkan, who was inured to suffering by a lifetime’s practice, refused a second mouthful.

Log Jaris might have been able to get through some of the stuff, but the matter was never put to the test, for the bullman was still dead to the world.

‘Fussy, are we?’ said Zozimus.

He sampled his own wares, looked thoughtful, then put some rice on to boil.

In the end, only Chegory and Zozimus dined on the curry, and then only after diluting it with quantities of boiled white rice. They were both sweating ferociously by the time they had finished, partly from the sultry heat of the morning but mostly from the inner fires ignited by the master chef’s misplaced genius. The other humans contented themselves with the juice of several green coconuts, a fluid much to be recommended to anyone in their condition, for it is most certainly the best of all known remedies for that dreadful affliction known as a hangover.

[Here an inaccuracy born of a pardonable ignorance. An ancient medical text in our possession clearly states that a hangover will be cured most swiftly by cooling the body, draining it of blood and replacing that drug-contaminated fluid with a transfusion from an immaculate source. While a codex of later date reports that mass fatalities resulted from an experiment designed to test this thesis, we nevertheless must accept the authority of our ancestors, even if we find ourselves sadly lacking in the expertise required to exploit this knowledge.
Xjoptiproti, Fact Checker Interpolative
.]

[There is nothing sad in this lack since we none of us indulge in alcohol. With tragic exceptions! Such as Xjopti-proti himself, who was found dead a day after the writing of the above. A flask of potato liquor was at his side and a still for the manufacture of this lethal concoction was discovered in his study. Need I say more?
Drax Lira, Redactor Major.]

Breakfast was scarcely over when a panic-stricken servant came rushing in to say that the Hermit Crab was without - and was demanding an audience with Chegory Guy.

‘Oh shit!’ said Chegory, smacking his forehead. ‘I never fed the thing! It hasn’t been fed since - since - gods! Is it three days? Four?’

Chegory tried to think. He had given lunch to the Crab on the first day of disaster - the day on which the loss of the wishstone had been discovered. But on the second day he had been too busy with things like the petitions session. Then there had been the banquet in the evening and the dragon and - well, after that the Hermit Crab had been the last thing on his mind. He had spent the third day sleeping and hiding out in Uckermark’s corpse shop. Then on the fourth day - yesterday - there had been the depositions hearing, Varazchavardan’s coup, and all the madness which had followed.

The Crab had been totally unfed for at least three whole days!

‘Well, come on,’ said Ivan Pokrov. ‘Let’s not keep the thing waiting. That wouldn’t improve it’s temper, you know.’

‘You’re coming with me?’ said Chegory.

‘You can go alone if you want,’ said Pokrov.

‘I, uh - yes, well, company’s fine. Yes, come, sure.’

With that, Chegory set off for his interview with the dreaded Hermit Crab. He started remembering some of the things he had been told about its Powers. About, for example, the sorcerer who had been turned inside out after trying to enslave the Crab. Flies had settled upon his pulsating—

[Here details of twenty-seven revolting incidents have been deleted. By Order. The gusto with which the Originator narrated the said incidents is itself something which verges on the obscene.
Drax Lira, Redactor Major.]

Chegory and Pokrov found the Hermit Crab waiting at the main entrance to the Analytical Institute. The morning sim was shining and sheening on the mottled surface of its carapace. Beneath its body, where its bulk blotted out the sun, the shadows were thick, dark, black. The Crab’s claws were infolded against its carapace. Chegory tried to figure their reach then abandoned the effort. Brute force was the least of the dangers he faced. Nevertheless, the sheer bulk of the Crab was intimidating. Chegory had forgotten how huge it was.

The Crab studied them in silent reproach then said:

'I was not fed. All yesterday. If my memory does not deceive me, I was not fed the day before that. If I had an accountant’s mentality I could go on. But I’m sure you get my point.’

Nobody knew what to say.

The Hermit Crab waited patiently. For what? Excuses? Apologies? In the uncomfortable conversational pause they could hear the unending streams of dikle and shlug still pouring into the Laitemata and the squabbling of a few crows haggling over some rubbish outside the kitchen.

It was Chegory who first dared speak.

‘I’m afraid we’ve been, um, well, rather busy,’ he said. ‘There’s a. um, a demon, actually. It’s got a name. Binchinminfin, that’s its, uh, name. It’s - well, it’s in Varazchavardan. I mean, it’s taken him over. And - well, we’ve been, we’ve been, uh, I guess you could say we’ve been pretty occupied. Busy, I mean.’

He paused.

The Hermit Crab’s ominous immobility suggested this excuse failed to meet with its approval.

Chegory stood there.

Sweating.

Awaiting his death.

Then a third figure joined the two confronting the monster. It was the wizard of Xluzu, the formidable Pelagius Zozimus.

‘Aha!’ said Zozimus briskly, rubbing his hands together. ‘So this is the famous Crab! Good day to you, my lord! Pelagius Zozimus at your service! A master chef, if you please, and believe me most are pleased indeed. I’ve a thousand satisfied clients spread all the way from Tang to Chi’ash-lan. I’ve never cooked for a Crab before, but there’s always a first time. I’d be delighted to give it a bash. What would you like to eat?’

‘It eats fish guts,’ said Chegory. ‘Offal, that’s all.’

‘Dear friend,’ said the wizard, addressing the Hermit Crab directly and ignoring Chegory entirely, ‘I have lately served the Empress Justina and it would be my pleasure now to serve you in turn. Tell me - how you would like your provender styled. What would you find most gustful?’

The Hermit Crab was silent, as if deep in thought. Then one massive claw opened. Then closed with a decisive click.

‘I would like,’ said the Hermit Crab, ‘some fresh flying fish lightly fried and adorned with a milk-based sauce flavoured, if possible, with mint, and if not then with some equivalent herb chosen at your discretion.’

‘Oh, excellent, excellent,’ said Zozimus. ‘And then?’

‘And then,’ said the Hermit Crab, ‘I would like...’

It specified, in all, a total of fifty different dishes. When it was done, Zozimus complimented on its taste and discretion, then strode away to the kitchen with Chegory in tow. Zozimus loved a challenge. Especially one very close to impossible.

Once in the kitchen, Pelagius Zozimus issued rapid-fire orders to the kitchen staff. Then he turned to Chegory.

‘Chegory! I need some milk!’

‘Well, there’s, um, coconuts, I suppose,’ said Chegory.

‘Not coconut milk!’ said the master chef. ‘Real milk! Get me a goat!’

‘There’s no goat on all of Jod,’ said Chegory.

‘Then we’ll try another source,’ said Pelagius Zozimus.

‘There is a bawling baby on Jod, therefore there is milk. Fetch!’