The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers (42 page)

There was the flesh of Varazchavardan, and there Odolo. Who was dying, surely. For Varazchavardan had the conjuror’s neck in a grip of iron. Literally. For one of Varazchavardan’s arms had not reverted to flesh, but was metal still. That metal arm was forcing Odolo’s neck around. Soon the neck must break.

Now was Chegory’s chance.

If one of those plague-silent bodies was Olivia’s, then he must get her out and away now, now, now! Before the battle ended and Varazchavardan was free to turn his wrath on other targets.

He ran forward.

The light flared to a blinding brightness.

‘No!’ screamed Chegory.

He slipped. He slid. He fell. He sent sprawling in the undelights of kedgeree and curry. Splot! He opened his eyes, but found himself blind. Then rage possessed him. He swore as only an Ebrell Islander can. He leapt to his feet, meaning to do battle with anything he in his blindness could find. But his feet went out from under him, for the floor was slippery as a five-lust aftermath. Down he went, and thump went his head on the floor.

Half-dazed, Chegory lay there.

Was his back broken?

No.

Could he get up?

Yes.

Could he see?

Well ... a little.

Yes, his sight was returning. Meanwhile, his hearing was as sharp as ever. He could hear a single human floundering around in the slurry. Who? Chegory strove to see. Amidst a wash of purple light and strobing suns he made out the features of Odolo. Yes, it was the conjuror Odolo who was crawling through the food.

So where was Varazchavardan?

‘Chegory!’ said Uckermark, entering the Star Chamber.

‘Watch out!’ cried Chegory. ‘Varazchavardan!’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Odolo, his voice slurring and blurring. ‘Where is Varazchavardan?’

He had to ask because his eyes were nearly closed by bruises. He had been battered as badly as a haplass elitamoripadroti used for a game of kathandamatandatu.

‘Here,’ said Uckermark, striding forward and dealing out a hearty kick to the recumbent body of the Master of Law.

Varazchavardan lay supine and senseless in a sea of kedgeree which was almost (but not quite) deep enough to drown him. But though Varazchavardan was unconscious, his monstrous metal-formed arm, souvenir of his battle of transformations with Odolo, had a life of its own. The finger-equivalents opened and closed. Opened and closed. Opened and closed. Click click click!

‘You must kill,’ said Odolo. ‘Kill him.’

‘With pleasure,’ said Uckermark, scooping a discarded scimitar from the goop on the floor.

This was Chegory’s moment. This was Chegory’s chance. If he had seized it, he could have found Olivia and could have husded her out of the Star Chamber before anything else went wrong. But he failed to take advantage of the brief-lived chance - because he was too busy watching with fascination as Uckermark advanced upon Varazchavardan.

‘Hold!’ cried an intruder.

Uckermark held. Turned. Faced the intruder. Who was none other than Nixorjapretzel Rat. Where had he sprung from? The answer is simple. Rat had watched most of the proceedings from the mezzanine. Now he was intervening to save his master Varazchavardan from certain death.

‘Get crnt of here,’ said Uckermark, raising the scimitar with murder his intent.

Rat raised his hands. He did that bit perfectly. For a moment he looked every bit the wonderworker. Uckermark hesitated, watching Rat with a degree of wary suspicion.

‘Phidamas!’ cried Rat. ‘Phidamas! Strobo, um... stro-boko! Stroboko!’

Nothing happened.

So Uckermark turned back to Varazchavardan, murder once more his intent. Down came the scimitar. Straight into Varazchavardan’s skull. There was a clang of metal against metal. Uckermark dropped the scimitar. He clutched his swordhand.

‘This sorcerer’s skull is of metal!’ said Uckermark.

True. Varazchavardan’s skull had failed to revert to its original bone after the battle of transformations. Worse, Varazchavardan’s arm of monster-metal, which had also failed to revert, was starting to look for something to crunch and kill.

‘Look out!’ screamed Chegory.

Uckermark leapt aside. Just in time. The finger equivalents of the monster-arm closed on empty air and crushed it to nothing. Meanwhile, Rat was still trying to kill Chegory, Uckermark and Odolo by exercise of magic.

‘Phildamas!’ cried Rat. ‘Phildamas stroldoko! Man-credos! Mancredos! Fa!’

At his command, a whirlwind of shadow and flame roared into life. Roaring still, it began to spin toward Varazchavardan’s enemies. They, realising they had underestimated young Rat, took to their heels and fled for their lives.

From the pink palace they escaped: Uckermark, Odolo and Chegory Guy in consort. They did not linger but fled down Lak Street in blatant defiance of the sweltering heat of the day. When they reached the Cabal House of the sorcerers of Untunchilamon, they turned down Skindik Way, disturbing some crows which were holding a business conference, haggling for shares in the belly of a dead dog.

Past the Dromdanjerie they went, then past Ganthorgruk. Then, when they reached the city’s slaughterhouse, they stopped. Hot, panting, and exhausted.

‘Gods!’ said Chegory.

Then said no more, but leaned against a wall and panted some more. He could smell himself. He stank of sweat, curry, chowder and kedgeree. His silken canary robes were near enough to ruined. Gods! What if he was made to pay for new ones? Where would he find the money?

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Odolo.

‘What don’t you believe?’ said Uckermark.

‘What happened!’ said Odolo.

The conjuror wiped a hand across his glistening brow. He shook the hand. Drops of sweat flashed through the air. They made momentary pattern of dampness on the hot bloodstone of the street. But the pattern dried to nothing in instants.

Chegory’s breathing began to settle. The sun shone. A drunken vampire rat staggered from a speakeasy opposite the slaughterhouse, its night-adapted eyes closed against the sun. Chegory watched it for a few moments, then looked back up Skindik Way. Which was quiet, empty and uninteresting, but for the dog-consuming crows.

‘Come on,’ said Uckermark.

‘Where are we going?’ said Chegory.

‘Where do you think?’ said Uckermark.

But Chegory Guy did not think. He only guessed. Where could they go? At a guess, Downstairs. No other destination occurred to him.

‘We can’t go there!’ he said, in tones of horror.

‘We can,’ said Uckermark. ‘We must. We will.’

On he went, with Chegory following after him. At last -to his relief - Chegory realised they were not making for Downstairs. No. Their destination was quite otherwise.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

All this time the Malud marauders and Guest Gulkan’s faction had been penned up Downstairs by Shabble, who had not had so much fun for ages. It was delicous! So many people to play with! There were the two wizards, Pelagius Zozimus and Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin. There was the barbarian Guest Gulkan and the shifty-eyed Thayer Levant. Oh, and the three pirates from Asral: Al-ran Lars, Arnaut and Tolon.

During this time - and quite a time it was — these seven prisoners had made their own contributions to the flow of sewage which so liberally polluted the depths of Downstairs. They had scavenged a little ice in the course of their compulsory wanderings but had had nothing to eat, and were consequently hungry, tired and out of temper.

They were also hoarse.

Why hoarse?

Because Shabble had been threatening to amuse Shabbleself by executing them, and to provide the globular one with an alternative source of amusement the prisoners had been telling non-stop stories. True stories, false stories, tales, jokes, legends and chronicles. In between stories, they had been trying to persuade the haunter of many millennia that it would be really amusing to go to Justina’s palace, burn up a few guards and make themselves masters of U ntunchilamon.

Unfortunately, Shabble remained resolutely unpersuaded.

It was Arnaut who cracked first. Shabble had made the youngster from Asral carry the wishstone. Arnaut had wished on it time and time again - to no effect. Now he was going to try direct action to get his way. He was the youngest, and had a bloody temper when roused.

‘You shib!’ said Arnaut. ‘I’ve had enough! That’s it! You can beat me, bum me, hit me, hate me, but I’m not doing any more. I can’t talk any more. No more jokes, no more stories, no more songs.’

All this was said in Arnaut’s native Malud, but Shabble, who was a linguist of the first rank, understood it perfecdy.

‘Why not?’ said Shabble, sounding as hurt as Shabble felt.

‘Because I’m dying of hunger!’ screamed Arnaut in a cracked and ragged voice.

‘Then why didn’t you say so?’ said Shabble reasonably. ‘Come on, I know where there’s some vampire rats.’

‘Rats!’ said Arnaut.

‘Yes, rats, rats,’ said Shabble, drifting off down a corridor.

‘We can’t eat rats!’ said Arnaut.

‘Cats eat them,’ said Shabble. ‘So they’ve got to be good for you. Cats never settle for anything less than the best.’

‘What’re they saying, what’re they saying?’ said Thayer Levant, who could not follow any conversation held in Malud.

‘I’ll find out,’ said the brawny Guest Gulkan.

An exercise in translation followed. Then:

‘Man cannot live by rats alone,’ said Pelagius Zozimus. ‘If you want to keep us in good shape we’ll need green vegetables as well.’

‘Green vegetables!’ said Shabble huffily. ‘I suppose you’ll want to be sleeping next!’

‘Well...’

‘I knew it!’ said Shabble.

Then, in a fit of pique, the free-floating lord of misrule spat out a blue-blazing fireball. It drifted to the floor and exploded in a flare of ionising radiation. Zozimus winced and all argument about diet ceased.

On went the refugees, guided by the fearsome imitator of suns. Quick-striding in their hunger-haste, they passed a corridor lit by blue light. Zozimus glanced along it,

wondering if he should make a break for it and run.

‘Should we run?’ muttered Al-ran Lars to Arnaut and Tolon, for he was thinking along identical lines.

‘Let’s,’ said Arnaut.

But already their haste had taken them past the corridor junction, and if they turned to sprint back they would collide with the close-following Guest Gulkan.

‘Let’s risk a dash when we reach the next corridor,’ said the muscle-man Tolon. ‘But watch yourselves! That sun-thing’s three parts mad.’

‘I am not mad!’ said Shabble, who had hearing as acute as you could imagine.

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ said Arnaut, throwing up his hands as if to ward off a fast-flung rock. ‘You’re not mad, not mad at all, not - gods, what’s that?’

Something was emerging from a side corridor up ahead. Arnaut knew only that it was big, heavy, brown and bulbous. A monstrous, hulking thing stubbled with inscrutable protrusions. It made a sound like heavy breathing as it advanced. Then it halted. Blocking the corridor.

‘Turn around,’ said Shabble, in great haste. ‘Turn around, everyone. I don’t want to lose you.’

Everyone turned around. They didn’t need to be told twice. They had already guessed that the thing up ahead was fearfully dangerous.

‘Go back the way we were going,’ said Shabble, in something of a panic. ‘Don’t run!’

The wingless wonder softly but swiftly said that thrice, each time using a different language. This was very, very important. Shabble did not want to have these wonderful new playmates killed by the monster.

The lord of light and laughter knew what the monster was. It was stupid. Very stupid. But it was also dangerous. Very dangerous. Very very very dangerous. It was a machine. It was a dorgi. Shabble had instantly recognised the dorgi for what it was, even though the shining one had not seen such a menace for over five thousand years. Shabble, my friends, does not forget.

‘HALT!’ said the machine.

None of Shabble’s prisoners understood the Code Seven used by the dorgi, but they all halted the instant it spoke. They all knew a sentry’s challenge when they heard one. Their bright-shining companion halted also. The monster was definitely a dorgi. Those rock-crunching tones were unmistakable. Theoretically, Shabble is incapable of shuddering. Yet Shabble shuddered regardless. The demon of Jod had not known there were any dorgis left. But there were! Shabble was terrified.

Nevertheless, the shining one played it ultra-cool.

‘Oh, hi!’ said Shabble, speaking Code Seven to the dorgi. ‘Why, what a surprise! I didn’t see you there! Don’t worry about us, we’re just passing through.’ So saying, Shabble started to drift away down the corridor. ‘Yes, yes, don’t worry about us, we’ll find our own way thank you.’ ‘HALT! HALT RIGHT NOW!’

To emphasise its commands, the dorgi trained the seven snouts of its zulzer on the slow-drifting Shabble. Under the threat of the zulzer the demon of Jod came to an abrupt halt. The zulzer could not kill the lordly persecutor of cats, but was quite capable of destroying the transponder linking the feckless one with the local cosmos. Once that was destroyed Shabble would be deaf, blind and helpless. Trapped in a different universe entirely. Mute, blind and bereft of kinaesthetic sensation. Alone, alone, doomed to be alone, unloved, uncherished and unbefriended, all alone and hideously lonely for all the rest of eternity.