The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers (48 page)

Chegory thought about it, then thought about it some more, then decided he should creep up on Binchinminfin then hack the demon to death. It dwelt in human flesh. Ergo, it could be killed.

Yet still he hesitated, until one of the demon’s slaves raised her head from the muck, saw him, and wailed in unfeigned despair:

‘Chegory! Chegory! Help us!’

It was Olivia!

Instandy, Chegory was on his feet. Charging, screaming. His scimitar leapt for Binchinminfin’s throat.

But—

He was seized.

Gigantic fingers - invisible quite! - seized him. Squeezed! Squeezed the air out of him. He was choking. Gasping. Unable to breathe. He was—

Moving.

Chegory kicked and struggled helplessly as the invisible fist conveyed him across the room to join the line of heroes hung high in the air. When he got there, the fist relaxed its pressure. But still kept hold of his midriff. Chegory hacked at it wildly with his scimitar. But the blade met nothing.

‘Didn’t you believe me, you dumb Ebby?’ said Tolon in passable Toxteth. ‘I told you it was no use attacking the thing. I told you to get help.’

‘Ah, go scrag yourself,’ said Chegory.

Then hacked some more at the fist which was not there to be hacked. Binchinminfin watched him through Varazchavardan’s pink eyes. Then scratched Justina’s ape behind the ears, mouthed some more spitchcock, then laughed. Belatedly, Chegory, started thinking.

‘Shabble,’ said Chegory cautiously. ‘Shabble, are you here?’

‘Yes,’ said a voice from just behind his ear. ‘Chegory, Chegory, don’t let that thing hurt me.’

‘Shabble dearest,’ said Chegory, ‘I won’t let it hurt you at all. What I want you to do is get help. Roll upward, upward. There’s windows up there. Go get Yilda, tell her what’s happened. She’ll know what to do.’

So spoke Chegory, doubting that there was actually very much Yilda could do at all, apart from arranging for their funerals. He waited. At length, a reply came from his cautious companion.

‘I can’t,’ said Shabble. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘It’s dangerous to be here!’ said Chegory. ‘That thing down there, that’s not Varazchavardan! That’s Binchinminfin! A demon! A horrible hideous Thing from Beyond come to rape, kill and pillage!’

‘Shabbies can’t be raped,’ said Shabble. ‘Or pillaged.’ ‘Perhaps not,’ said Chegory. ‘But they can be killed. Or sent to the therapist.’

‘Why should the demon do that?’ said Shabble. ‘Because it’s evil!’ said Chegory.

‘How do you know?’ said Shabble, to Chegory’s intense irritation. This was no time for ontological discourse! Nevertheless, Shabble continued: ‘Can you prove it?’ ‘Look,’ said Chegory, taking a deep breath. ‘Never mind the demon! If you don’t take a message to Yilda I’ll kill you myself. Or - or I could send you to a therapist myself!’ ‘You couldn’t do either,’ said Shabble reasonably. ‘Not when you’re hung up here like this.’

The fallen one was bluffing. The lord of lies knew that in fact any person-in-the-flesh can send any Shabble to any therapist at any time whatsoever on any pretext at all. The Shabble-designers of the Golden Gulag had carefully skewed Shabble’s logic-sense to ensure that this bubble of free will would always believe as much.

However, Chegory Guy did not know that his flighty companion was bluffing, therefore the young Ebrell Islander failed to make the overt threat which would have forced his recalcitrant spherical friend to obey. Instead, Chegory hung there, cursing impotently. Thayer Levant and Tolon joined him in a prolonged exercise of rage and obscenity.

‘It’s no good,’ said Uckermark. ‘Save your strength.’ ‘The demon-thing must sleep sooner or later,’ said Log Jaris. ‘Everything sleeps. Then we can get away. Surely.’ ‘Oh yes,’ said Guest Gulkan. ‘Unless it kills us before it sleeps.’

The wizard Pelagius Zozimus made no contribution to this conversation, for he was speaking urgently to Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin. At last his cousin stirred, opened his eyes and replied. Soon the two masters of the mirific were engrossed in a colloquy of their own in the High Speech of wizards.

Chegory fell silent, but only for a moment. Then his anger overwhelmed him. In a strident voice he cried: ‘Binchinminfin! I’m calling you out! I challenge you to single combat!’

A rash thing to say!

Consequences were immediate!

The demon, garbed in Varazchavardan’s flesh, got to its feet and picked up a scimitar.

‘Pain,’ said the demon, forcing Odolo’s strange foreign accents from Varazchavardan’s flesh. ‘Let us play with pain while we hack you to bits. The feet will go first.’

Then the demon advanced on Chegory, swinging the scimitar as it came.

Chegory realised his error. The demon-thing had no sense of honour. It would not dare a challenge, blade against blade. Instead, it would chop him to pieces as he hung helpless in the air. He screamed with fear.

But before Binchinminfin could hack away Chegory’s feet, a voice roared out. Oh, and what a voice!

‘Don’t you dare!’ said Anaconda Stogirov.

Binchinminfin, fearing the presence of a hostile Power, fell back. The suspended prisoners were released suddenly. They toppled from the air. Chegory landed heavily on all fours.

‘Who spoke?’ said Binchinminfin. ‘Who was it? Who is it? Who’s there?’

‘It is I,’ said Shabble, burning brightly in the air above, greatly emboldened by the demon’s manifest fear. ‘It is I, Anaconda Stogirov, Chief of Security of the Golden Gulag. Hear and obey! Or I will send you to a therapist immediately.’

‘Spah!’ said the demon.

It threw a fistful of air in Shabble’s direction. The air became a fireball. Shabble never moved. The fireball and the bright-gleaming Shabble became one. Shabble glowed a litde brighter. Then replied by unleashing a fury of flame that should by rights have incinerated the demon. But Binchinminfin laughed. Demonic laughter shrivelled the flame-fury to a few shreds of harmless smoke.

Then the demon hurled a lighting bolt at Shabble. Who ducked and spat hard radiation in reply. As a sizzling exchange of death and destruction proceeded, Pelagius Zozimus and Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin began crawling toward the nearest exit.

Shabble bobbed up and down, whistling merrily. Shabble thought this firelight was great fun. Then Binchinminfin scored a direct hit on the quick-darting Shabble. With a sphere of incandescent plasma. Shabble ate it.

‘Throw me another one,’ said the imitator of suns.

Binchinminfin screamed with rage.

As the firefight intensified, Uckermark and Logjaris set out after the two wizards. Tolon followed them. As did Guest Gulkan and Thayer Levant. Chegory, the last of the heroes to hold his ground, stayed down, stayed low, waiting for his chance to rush forward and rescue Olivia.

Then Binchinminfin went berserk. He hurled sheets of smoke, flame and lighting toward the taunting Shabble. As death filled the air, all humans who could run took flight. Chegory among them. He was no good to Olivia if he was dead!

‘Where are you?’ roared Binchinminfin, as the smoke cleared.

‘Here,’ said Shabble.

Then giggled.

Binchinminfin picked up an orange and breathed on it. The orange became transparent. Within its depths lights swirled and sparked.

‘Tharaftendosko,’ said Binchinminfin.

Then released the orange.

The globe went rolling through the air toward Shabble. Who guessed what it was - and dropped like a stone. The globe struck a pillar and disintegrated. As did the pillar. Where the globe had struck, stone became chaos: a cascade of free-sliding incoherence in which bits of maybe, once was and might-have-been tumbled over and over. Gravity claimed the chaos. Which collapsed toward the floor, writhing its way downward to join the unpleasant mess which had already disfigured the Star Chamber.

Fortunately, the pillar had been purely ornamental in nature, therefore the palace did not fall down on the heads of those who were doing battle within its walls.

The demon loosed another globe. Shabble skittered and jived, frantic to escape this lethal weapon, which the refugee from the ruins of the Golden Gulag had correctly identified as a field of localised improbability.

Three more globes the demon loosed. Time for Shabble to be gone! The feckless one duplicated itself thrice thirty times. Leaving the Star Chamber ablaze with imitation Shabbies, the true article went to ground and rolled along the floor, speeding out of the nearest exit like a glob of spittle being blown along by a hurricane. In the dark interstices of the pink palace, Shabble caught up with Chegory Guy, and shone a little light to help the Ebrell Islander and his stumbling comrades navigate out of the palace.

‘What happened?’ said Chegory.

‘I got beaten,’ said Shabble frankly.

‘You mean, you can’t kill the demon-thing?’

‘I tried!’ said Shabble, hurt by the note of disappointment in Chegory’s voice. ‘I tried, I tried, really I did! But I couldn’t, that’s all.’

‘All right.’ said Chegory, doing his best to soothe poor Shabble. ‘All right, you did your best, I know that. Come, let’s be gone.’

Outside, they met Ivan Pokrov and old man Al-ran Lars, who had been conferring in the shadow of the palace portico.

‘What’s happening within?’ said Al-ran Lars.

‘Explanations later!’ said Uckermark. ‘Let’s just get the hell out of here.’

‘What about the wishstone?’ said Guest Gulkan. ‘Where is it?’

Uckermark had to confess that he had dropped it in the Star Chamber.

‘How could you!’ said Guest Gulkan, aghast at this disaster. T risked my life for that thing! Years of questing! Battles, torture, horror, nightmare, death! And you - you

— I don’t believe it! You’ve got it, haven’t you? Haven’t you?!’

‘Search me then,’ said Uckermark. ‘Search me, if you don’t believe me.’

Guest Gulkan needed no further invitation. He frisked the corpse master instantly. Then nothing would serve except for him to search all the others. Then he screamed in frustrated rage. He was so angry he punched himself in the head.

‘Right!’ said Zozimus briskly. ‘If you’ve got the histrionics out of your system, then let’s be gone.’

So saying, the master wizard of the order of Xluzu began to march away downhill. The others followed.

Chegory wanted to protest. Olivia was still back in the Star Chamber! If she was alive. But...

What could he do? He could not contend with the demon. When threatened, Binchinminfin had strung him up in the sky without even touching him. The demon controlled fire, smoke and thunder. Could smash stone at will.

Already the other humans were a hundred paces distant.

‘Come on, Chegory!’ said Shabble.

So the Ebrell Islander joined the retreat down Lak Street. Past the houses of the great and the grand with their walls aglow with the blue-green glimmer of moon paint. Past the inexplicable ship-sized monolith of bone which the city knows as Pearl.

There Arnaut of Asral stepped out of the shadows and greeted them.

‘What happened to you?’ said Al-ran Lars.

‘It’s a long story,’ said Arnaut, and began to tell it as the refugees continued their retreat downhill.

Shortly they reached the Cabal House of Injiltaprajura’s wonderworkers. From the uppermost storey there still came the same drunken singing, indicating that the end-of-the-world celebrations were still in full swing.

Uckermark halted.

‘Let’s go in and negotiate,’ said he. ‘We can’t handle this demon-thing without help. Zozimus, my man! Lead us within!’

‘Me?’ said Pelagius Zozimus. ‘I’m a wizard. Wizards and sorcerers are deadly enemies. They’d kill me rather than listen to me.’

‘Right!’ said Uckermark. ‘I’ll go in alone!’

So in he went.

After a protracted wait, Chegory Guy ventured within to see what had happened to the corpse master. He found Uckermark sitting on the steps which led upward. The way was impassable, for the wonderworkers had done nothing to clear the mass of stone still blocking the stairwell. Chegory could smell the dust of broken rock. Plus something else besides. Something sharp, evil, alluring. He noticed that Uckermark had a small flask in his hand.

‘What you got there?’ said Chegory.

‘What do you think?’ said Uckermark, proffering the flask to the Ebrell Islander.

‘No thanks,’ said Chegory stiffly.

‘Well then!’ said Uckermark. ‘Your loss, my gain.’

So saying, he drained the flask, then tossed it aside and led the w’ay outside.

‘We’ll get no help from the wonderworkers tonight,’ he said. ‘Let’s be going.’

They turned down Skindik Way and hurried past the Dromdanjerie, from whence there came the sound of deranged howling. Chegory presumed that Jon Qasaba would be inside, ministering to his patients. Not for the first time, the Ebrell Islander wished he could flee into the Dromdanjerie, curl up on his pallet and pretend the disasters which had overwhelmed his life had never happened.

On they went. Past the enormous rotting shadow of Ganthorgruk. As they hastened down the street, a ferocity of rats burst from a sewer-hole in the base of the building. Vampire rats! A pack of marauding vampire rats intent on murder!