The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers (12 page)

‘Shabble Shabble Shabble!’ said Ivan Pokrov in something like despair. ‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing,’ said Shabble defensively.

‘You crazy gloop!’ said Chegory, beside himself with anger. ‘You burnt a dozen soldiers half to death!’

‘I did not,’ said Shabble heatedly. ‘I only singed them a little, that’s all.’

Shabble was telling the truth. None of the soldiers under the command of Coleslaw Styx had been seriously injured. But it made no difference. Chegory and his companions were suddenly wanted criminals on the run. He said as much.

‘But Shabble’s to blame!’ said Olivia.

‘Chegory’s right,’ said Pokrov. ‘The law is the law. Anyone with Shabble when Shabble runs amok gets punished.’

That was indeed the law, or part of it. A good law it was, too. Shabble was potentially a master of arson, espionage and public disorder, so it was best to have the strongest possible sanctions to stop people exploiting Shabble’s weakness of character.

‘What - what will they do with us?’ said Olivia. ‘When they catch us, I mean.’

‘There now,’ said Ingalawa, holding her niece close and tight. ‘There there.’

This refusal to provide specifics told Olivia that things were very bad indeed. She started weeping.

‘We, um, off the streets,’ said Chegory, conscious of their urgent need to take immediate evasive action. ‘Under cover, we have to get under cover, as soon as possible.’

‘You told me once of your cousin, Firfat Labrat,’ said Ingalawa.

‘No!’ said Chegory in alarm. ‘Not him! We can’t go to him!’

‘But we’d be safe there,’ persisted Ingalawa. ‘Wouldn’t
we?’

‘All we need is a haven for this evening alone,’ said Ivan Pokrov. ‘Come morning, we can get a good lawyer and sort this thing out.’

Chegory was not at all keen on the idea. But what else could he do? If he had been on his own, he would have' found one of the entrances to the depths Downstairs, and would have taken his chances in those realms of danger. But he durst not lead Olivia into such places. Reluctantly, he agreed. He would lead them to the lair of Firfat Labrat.

But where was that?

Though Chegory was well acquainted with all quarters of Injiltaprajura, he was so upset by the turn events had taken that at first he was lost. Shabble brightened to reveal their surroundings entirely, but young Chegory found that the streets of Marthandorthan were as strange to him as those of an alien city. Then he got a grip on himself, got his bearings, and began to lead the way to safety.

CHAPTER NINE

Firfat Labrat was a drug dealer. The drug in question was the dreaded alcohol, a fearful carcinogen which shrinks the breasts of women and enlarges the breasts of men, which gnaws the liver and addles the brain. It rots the unborn while they lie within the womb. It blights the marriages of young and old alike and turns good workers into filthy, unkempt layabouts.

Such is the demonic allure of this drug that the helpless junkies who become addicted to it will persist in their course of self-destruction despite vomiting, impotence, gastric reflux and uncontrollable outbursts of unpredictable violence or shameless confession. In the final stages of their degradation they cannot live without this hellish brew to which their bodies have become hopelessly addicted. Their limbs shake constantly with fever; the walls around them crawl with nightmarish delusion; all that awaits them is a remorseless descent into insanity and death.

What kind of depraved person would traffic in such filthy stuff? What foul, leprous ghoul would seek to profit from such? Why, an Ebrell Islander of course! Such was Firfat Labrat. And in the slumlands of Injiltaprajura, where the vice of poverty is at its worst, he found plenty of people ready to work for him. Yes: it is truly remarkable what people will do to avoid starvation.

Wazir Sin would have put an end to all this, of course, for he was preparing to wipe out the poor entirely when Lonstantine Thrug overthrew him. Since then, men like Labrat had flourished. In fact, in the absence of any strong-minded utopian like Sin, it looked like the poor would be with Injiltaprajura always, and their vices likewise.

When Chegory brought his friends to Labrat’s lair - a rotting warehouse in a most insalubrious part of Marthandorthan - they experienced some difficulty gaining admission because the search for the wishstone had heightened the sense of paranoia which attended the activities of the loathsome Labrat.

However, Chegory was not entirely unknown to Labrat’s men, for on occasion he had earnt himself a little mango money by helping shift mysterious cargoes in the depths of bardardornootha. You see? He was an Ebrell Islander through and through. Tainted already by his willing association with the traffic in disease, insanity and death.

Thus in due course Chegory’s negotiations at the door to Labrat’s lair met with success, and he was admitted together with his companions. So there they were in a drug dealer’s den with soldiers doubtless scouring the streets for them.

‘Wait here,’ said a minion. ‘I’ll get friend Dunash.’

Off went the minion. Chegory and his companions settled themselves on barrels and prepared to wait.

Olivia stared around with the widest of eyes. She had never before been in a place like this. Shabble supplemented the efforts of a few feeble oil lanterns, illuminating a large hall studded with doors opening on to offices and strongrooms, the air heavy with the scent of joss sticks being burnt to conceal the taint of the drug which was stored in this house of evil.

‘How are we going to get out of this mess?’ said Chegory. ‘Shabble? You got us into it. Got any bright ideas?’

‘Burning, burning, burning,’ chanted Shabble in a lilting, high-singing voice. ‘Injiltaprajura entire, I could burn it, Chegory. The whole lot! Nothing left! All gone! No more problem then! Right now, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll burn it right now.’

‘You will do no such thing!’ said Pokrov.

‘Why not?’ said Shabble.

‘Because I,’ said Pokrov, ‘would be most annoyed. I might even send you to the therapist!’

Shabble squeaked with fear and ascended to the ceiling. ‘Could Shabble really incinerate Injiltaprajura?’ said Chegory, with a kind of horror.

‘No, of course not!’ said Pokrov briskly. ‘Or not at a single blow, in any case. It would probably take our bubbly little friend several days to barbecue the entire city.’

‘You know a lot about Shabble,’ said Ingalawa.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Pokrov, affecting impatience. ‘We chat, you know. Shabble tells me things. Why, it was Shabble who helped my grandfather design the Analytical Engine.’ Pokrov was lying. It was not Pokrov’s grandfather whom Shabble had helped. It was Pokrov himself.

‘I’ve seen a portrait of your grandfather,’ said Ingalawa. ‘He looks remarkably like you.’

‘What’s remarkable about family resemblance?’ said Pokrov. Then, without waiting for an answer, he continued: ‘Look, enough of this idle chit-chat. We have to think seriously. Shabble’s got us in a mess. What are we going to do?’

‘Justina,’ said Olivia. ‘The Empress.’

‘We know who the Empress is, child,’ said Pokrov.

‘Yes,’ said Olivia, ‘but, I mean, we could petition her, you know. People do it all the time. Up at the pink palace, I mean.’

‘Oh, we know all about the petitions process,’ said Pokrov.

‘She does have a point,’ said Ingalawa. ‘It might be the swiftest way out of our difficulties.’

‘Well I don’t want to get mixed up in any petition,’ said Chegory.

‘Why on earth not?’ said Ingalawa. ‘The Empress is very nice. She’s kind, sensible and merciful. Very few petitions fail, you know. If they’re at all reasonable she’ll grant them. She’ll understand about Shabble getting out of hand.’

‘I still don’t want to go petitioning,’ said Chegory. ‘Not Justina, not anyone.’

‘What’s the problem?’ said Ingalawa. ‘It’s a perfectly logical thing to do.’

Chegory was silent. This woman didn’t understand anything! A petition to the Empress was the most public matter imaginable. What if his uncle was to learn of it? If Dunash Labrat learnt that Chegory had fallen foul of the law, Chegory would be ashamed to ever again show his face at the worthy beekeeper’s smallholding.

Ingalawa, Qasaba and Pokrov began to bully Chegory. He must stop running; he must stand up for himself; he must act like a citizen, not like a furtive criminal. Meantime, the miscreant arch-illuminator of Injiltaprajura descended from the heights to join in the debate.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Shabble. ‘Do it, Chegory! Do it!’

The Ebrell Islander’s will began to crumble in the face of this combined onslaught. But he was still terrified of publicity, exposure, notoriety. He thought it safer by far to run, to hide, to vanish, to disappear from the face of the earth. At last, unable to defend himself directly any more, he begged leave to think things through overnight.

‘Don’t prevaricate like that,’ said Ingalawa. ‘Show some decisiveness for once. Make a decision!’

Fortunately, Chegory was rescued by the arrival of Firfat Labrat and his henchman Hooch Neesberry. Labrat himself was incongruously garbed in a green singlet, a white dhoti and pink slippers. He was a big man built in Ebrell Island red, his flesh largely smothered by luxurious red hair which grew from his cheeks, his chin, shoulders and the back of his hands; indeed, he was so furry that in a certain light he looked more like a rare kind of ape than a man.

This, then, was Firfat Labrat, son of Chegory Guy’s mother’s brother Vermont and hence Chegory’s cousin, and a cousin also of Dunash Labrat’s son Ham. He greeted Chegory warmly, and laughed when Chegory explained the troubles which had brought them to Marthandorthan.

‘That Shabble!’ said Firfat, shaking his head. ‘Always up to some mischief!’

‘Yes,’ said Chegory, ‘but it’s my fault really. I should have stayed on Jod. But these - these people persuaded me otherwise. I’m sorry we’re here, it puts you in danger.’

‘Danger’s my business,’ said Firfat, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘More, it’s my life.’ Then he laughed again. Then, growing serious, turned to one of Chegory’s companions. ‘You’re Ivan Pokrov, aren’t you? The man from the Analytical Institute, right?’

‘The same,’ acknowledged Pokrov.

‘Then maybe you can help me,’ said Firfat. ‘There’s this little thing I have to sort out with the inland revenue.’

‘If there’s accounting work to do,’ said Pokrov, ‘then Shabble can help us. We can get it done in no time.’ Shabble immediately began to drift away. Shabble was the best accountant on Untunchilamon and knew the intricacies of the tax system inside out, but nevertheless hated figurework of any description.

‘Come here,’ said Pokrov. ‘Or do I have to send you to a therapist to get any work out of you?’

‘It’s my holiday,’ said Shabble rebelliously. ‘I haven’t had a holiday for five thousand years. I’m taking one now. So!’

But Pokrov was insistent, and at last Shabble, with the greatest of reluctance, followed him into Labrat’s office.

These Shabbies! Lazy, idle, mischievous, wilful, wanton, irresponsible! Surely the collapse of the Golden Gulag is no longer a mystery once we realise that the Gulag relied heavily upon Shabbies for expertise of all descriptions. As it has often been remarked in Injiltaprajura, for practical purposes Shabble is scarcely worth a damn, since this creature must be supervised constantly and badgered incessantly if any work is to be got out of it.

Nevertheless, the invention of Shabbies remains the crowning achievement of the Gulag. The best brains of the Gulag laboured mightily for fifty thousand years to produce intelligent life which would surpass human genius -) and, in the Shabbies, they succeeded.

‘Taxes!’ said Neesberry, once Labrat had vanished into his office with Pokrov and Shabble. ‘Things were simpler in Zolabrik, eh?’ And he slapped Chegory on the back. ‘You remember?’

‘Yes,’ said Chegory sourly. ‘Though I was young.’

‘Of course you were! Then but a boy, but now a man. Come, man-thing, let’s drink with the men. You Ashdans coming?’

‘We don’t drink,’ said Ingalawa severely.

‘But you’re coming regardless,’ said Neesberry.

Ingalawa protested. Neesberry insisted. Ingalawa capitulated, and she and Olivia accompanied the two men into Firfat Labrat’s private saloon. There they were introduced to the few favoured guests who were enjoying Labrat’s hospitality. These guests included the harbourmaster, two bankers, three priests, a couple of tax collectors and a judge.

‘Give our friends a little Number One,’ said Hooch Neesberry.

The barman complied, serving up small tots of Number One in white porcelain cups. Chegory Guy regarded the fluid with disfavour. It was hard liquor. He knew, all too well, the consequences of indulgence in such. Intoxication. Addiction. Then the slow descent into degradation and madness in which the addict sweats through waking nightmares, hands and body shaking as imaginary spiders swarm in the fireplace and dead flesh walks by daylight.

‘Drink up!’ said Neesberry.

‘We are his guests,’ said Ingalawa, gently reminding Chegory of the demands of etiquette.

So Chegory gritted his teeth and took a swallow of the Number One. The vicious fluid seared his throat. Tears started from his eyes. His head spun and his knees buckled. He staggered, but kept his balance. He could feel the gut-rot liquor burning, burning, burning as it gulleted down to his stomach.