The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers (16 page)

He gained the corridor.

And was promptly menaced by bright blades held by a four-strong band of men who looked more than ready to use them.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Chegory’s quartet of captors did not declare themselves, but their names in time became well-known to history and its recorders. None was a native of Untunchilamon; instead, all hailed from lands far distant.

[A tautology, and, I regret, but one of many. If someone has been declared to be no native of Untunchilamon then it is necessarily tautological to declare their genesis far distant, since the most cursory acquaintance with geography teaches us that Untunchilamon lies near no other land. To the north is Tameran, to the south Parengarenga, to the east Yestron and to west Argan, all a weary sea-voyage distant. Sundry minor islands are closer slightly, but none could rightly be described as ‘neighbouring’.
This criticism inserted by Ventantakorum of Odrum, Seventh Grade Critic Textual
.]

Most fearsome in appearance was a burly barbarian girded in leather. This man of ugly face and jug-handle ears was a Yarglat tribesman by name of Guest Gulkan. He was pretender to the throne of Tameran, currently occupied by the Lord Emperor Khmar. He it was who spoke first.

‘Who are you?’ said the barbarian.

He addressed young Chegory in the Toxteth of Wen Endex, a language curt and brutal at the best of times. Fortunately, Chegory could speak Toxteth (and Dub, Janjuladoola and Ashmarlan as well).

Don’t get the wrong idea! Here you will find no apology for the Ebrell Islanders after the manner of the Ashdan liberals, no claims that these people are capable of intellectual endeavour or (yes, Ashdans have dreamed as much!) of scholarly achievement. Chegory Guy was just as he has been painted: a coarse and ignorant rock gardener with the most limited of capabilities imaginable.

The juvenile redskin was certainly no linguist. This can be proved by having reference to the classical definition of ‘knowing a language’ which was framed so long ago by the scholarly Iskordan. It is (out of pity for the unwise one must often spell out these things, however ludicrous such a procedure must seem to the educated!) to be possessed of the ability to defend oneself in a court of law in that tongue, to compose poetry in the same argot, and, finally, to frame in that mode of speech a joke which is capable of eliciting laughter from a native speaker of the same.

[True true true. Yet one might wish to supplement this definition by saying that to truly ‘know’ a language one should also have certificated proof of one’s ability to treat with that tongue in the context of educated discourse. The idea that members of the polyglot rabble which infests the streets cities such as Injiltaprajura actually ‘know’ the languages in which they garble is an offensive notion deeply subversive of the underlying concepts which support the ideology of the Higher Learning, and hence is to be deprecated whenever possible.
Drax Lira, Redactor Major.]

As Chegory Guy could not have composed poetry to save his life, he did not (to apply Iskordan’s technical test) actually ‘know’ any languages whatsoever. He was therefore a living stereotype, proof of the accuracy and validity of the world’s prejudices. That is to say, he was an inarticulate creature who dwelt in a world where the most vital communications are made by the application of brute force and mindless violence.

Nevertheless, young Chegory could ‘speak’ some four separate tongues, after a fashion. Dub was native to his home; he absorbed it with his mother’s milk. He had mastered the complexities of Janjuladoola in the court of Jal Japone, for that was the ruling tongue in the warlord’s realm. Toxteth had held the ascendancy in Injiltaprajura ever since Chegory’s return, forcing him to acquire a certain competence in the same. As for Ashmarlan, why, that was the tongue of the Qasaba household, and also the language which Ivan Pokrov used in his daily dealings with young Chegory.

Now — where were we?

As yes! With the aforesaid young Chegory in a blue-lit corridor Downstairs, confronting a band of swordsmen whose number included the Yarglat barbarian Guest Gul-kan from far-distant Tameran, who had just asked him (in Toxteth) who he was.

While Chegory was competent in Toxteth (at least as competency is understood in the slums of Lubos) he nevertheless had difficulty understanding this simple query, since the barbarian’s atrocious accent mutilated the words. However, fear sharpened the young redskin’s ability, and, while the meaning of the barbarian’s articulations existed at the far border of intelligibility, he nevertheless retrieved that meaning and framed his reply.

‘That’s my question!’ said Chegory, with more courage than prudence.

His reply was nearly identical to that used by the Ashdan commander, Shanvil Angarus May, in reply to an impertinence ventured by Artemis Ingalawa. (Though, to be pedantic, May had spoken in Ashmarlan, whereas Chegory used Toxteth.) You see? Unless these Ebrell Islanders are kept under strict control they immediately begin to ape their betters, putting on airs and manners which should by rights be forbidden to the lower breeds.

‘Okay, Thatsmyquestion,’ said Guest Gulkan of the jug handle ears, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘Talking to you,’ said Chegory Guy, showing a truly amazing degree of reckless bloody-mindedness.

His patience was at an end. His long day was growing ever longer and longer. First alarums at the Dromdanjerie, then work, then study, then attack by a kraken, then arrest, then boozing in Marthandorthan, a raid, imprisonment, a beating, argument, his deportation to the pink palace, riot, looting and much muddling around Downstairs. Now this!

‘Don’t dare your neck for nothing,’ said a rich-garbed greybeard in the fluent Toxteth of a native speaker of the tongue. ‘That’s lunacy!’

‘Who are you then?’ said Chegory Guy.

‘Someone older and wiser than you, young man,’ said the greybeard briskly. ‘Come, boy! Can your wit outflank weapons? We’re four, you’re one.’

By now, Chegory’s fit of bad temper was passing, and he was reconsidering the risks. His captors could spit him at will, leaving his corpse to rot away to nothing. What’s more, they looked perfectly ready to do so. He presumed they were up to no good. They must be criminals of some description, surely. Hence he began to tell the truth of his own recent history, thinking an account of his own villainy would help ingratiate him with these foreign-born gangsters.

Yes, while Chegory had yet to learn the names of any of his captors, he had correctly guessed that all four were from parts far removed from Untunchilamon. As he stumbled through his story of his recent past he speculated as to who they might be.

Chegory picked Guest Gulkan for a soldier of sorts. A fair enough guess, and an accurate one. The greybeard dressed in robes gorgeous he thought to be a wonderworker, one of the sorcerers of Yestron. Close! The tart-tongued ancient was indeed from Yestron, for he had been born in Wen Endex. However, he was no wonderworker. Rather, he was a wizard. In truth he was Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin, the notorious wizard of Drum, a renegade whose death had long been demanded by Argan’s Confederation of Wizards.

Then there was a tall clean-shaven man of middle years who wore a strange body-conforming garment which glittered like fish scales caught by the sun. So tall was he, so lordly his bearing and so bright his armour that Chegory could only presume him to be an elven lord straight out of legend. Blue were his eyes, blue and piercing, and his sword threatened to be more piercing yet.

Who was this personage?

Why, this was Pelagius Zozimus, in truth a wizard of the 116

order of Xluzu, one of the eight orders of the Confederation of Wizards.

Zozimus was a cousin of Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin, which was truly remarkable, for it is (according to all the authorities) very rare to have two wizards who are even distantly related by blood. A pair of wizards of the same generation of the same family is, therefore, an occurrence bordering on the miraculous. If this Text was to seek Verisimilitude at the expense of Truth then the relationship would not be mentioned; however, as this is a sober History it must perforce deal with the facts of the matter, even though many will find these facts incredible.

[Incredible indeed this familial relationship appears to be on the face of it. All authorities agree that the requisite inborn Talent for wizardry is exceedingly rare; furthermore, scarcely one apprentice in a hundred survives the Trials to which the evil wizards of the Confederation subject their students. Nevertheless, a diligent scrutiny of genealogical records sourced in Wen Endex has demonstrated the existence of two cousins so named. That bare fact in itself proves nothing, but the fact that neither is credited with either marriage or progeny may be significant. Those interested in pursuing this matter further will find the necessary references in paragraph 2201 of Issue 4368 of Volume 941 of the Genealogical Abstract.
Oris Baumgage, Fact Checker Minor.]

These, then, were the people with whom Chegory Guy was confronted. Guest Gulkan, exiled emperor of Tameran. Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin, wizard. Pelagius Zozimus, wizard likewise. Oh, and a fourth - Thayer Levant, a cutthroat from Chi’ash-lan. A nasty, shifty, dangerous piece of work if ever there was one. Rat was his face, but for his eyes, which were vulture. A rag-tatter patchwork cloak he wore, rigged so it could be swiftly offslipped for a knife fight, and cunningly weighted with lead so it could be used as a weapon in such a fight. Since Levant had no language in common with Chegory Guy, he could but stand silent while the Ebrell Islander poured out his story.

Chegory told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, yet Gulkan, Sken-Pitilkin and Zozimus had deep reservations about the story they were hearing. This is understandable. After all, young Chegory was an Ebrell Islander, and these people of the fire-burning skin are notoriously untruthful. They are bom degenerates with an innate genetic disposition toward drug-taking, the murder of cetaceans and that violent and obscene game known as ruck. In most cases those of the flesh of this foul, polluted people drink themselves to death by the age of forty (unless they die first of diseases venereal) and the world thinks itself well rid of them.

Once Chegory had finished his story, Zozimus retailed it in abstract to Thayer Levant in Galish, then all four swordsmen had a quick conference on Chegory’s future, voicing their thoughts in the same tongue since they were sure the Ebrell Islander would find it unintelligible. Indeed, young Chegory Guy was unknowledgeable in Galish, which is scarcely surprising since one would have been scrabbling to find any native of Untunchilamon who could converse in that language, which is the Trading Tongue of Argan’s Salt Road, and hence belongs to another world entirely.

‘I say kill him!’ said Thayer Levant.

‘You would,’ said Pelagius Zozimus disapprovingly.

‘The boy by chance could help us,’ said Guest Gulkan.

‘Help us?’ said Levant. ‘How?’

‘Maybe by guessing us a way to seize the wishstone,’ said Hostaja Sken-Pidlkin.

The wishstone?

Yes!

Precisely how Guest Gulkan and his comrades came to Untunchilamon is a mystery which is unlikely ever to be resolved, for they never confessed their mode of travel to any competent informant. But what is certain beyond a doubt is that they came to Injiltaprajura solely in order to find the wishstone. Indeed, it was this band of four adventurers which was responsible for the gaping hole in the treasury through which Chegory Guy had so recently ventured.

Thirty nights earlier this quartet had ventured Downstairs, meaning to find their way to the treasury, blast a hole in the wall, seize the wishstone and be gone. Unfortunately they had run into problems. To be exact, they had lost their way, and had then encountered a therapist left over from the days of the Golden Gulag. It had taken the combined strength and skill of all four to allow them (barely) to escape the clutches of the therapist.

After that trauma - strong men have died of less! - they had at length navigated to the treasury. Then the two wizards Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin and Pelagius Zozimus had used the very last of their presently available power to destroy part of the wall. (They were, you see, ignorant of the existence of the secret door earlier used by the Malud marauders.)

The adventurers had expected to find the treasury dark and empty in the dead of night. Instead, they had found it bright-lit and aswarm with activity. They had fled, and hence had not seen the riot which their attack on the treasury had provoked.

‘You think he could help us to the wishstone?’ said Levant. ‘Okay! Ask him! I wager you’ll not get much help from him.’

‘Why not?’ said Zozimus. ‘He’s an Ebrell Islander, is he not? They’re notable thieves, you know.’

Levant knew no such thing, for he had scarcely even heard of the Ebrell Islands. He shrugged and said:

‘As you wish.’

So Pelagius Zozimus spake unto Chegory Guy and said:

‘Let’s be frank. We’re here for the wishstone. Can you help us get it?’

‘You mean,’ said Chegory, ‘you’re hunting the thieves who stole it?’

‘What are you babbling about, boy?’ said Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin. ‘We’re not looking for thieves. We’re thieves ourselves. To wreck a way into the treasury of Injiltaprajura and make off with the wishstone is our intent. We got as far as the wrecking but found soldiers within. Can you tell us why?’