The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers coaaod-6

by Hugh Cook

  ‘Pokrov! Have you anything to say to me?’ Varazchavardan oft used this open-ended question on his victims in an effort to intimidate them and startle them into incontinent confession. But it had no such effect on the master of the Analytical Institute, who said:

  ‘Why, yes. Welcome, welcome! Won’t you sit down? Please. We’ve sea slugs today. Look. Green, succulent. Did you ever see anything more beautiful?’

  Pokrov knew his man. Varazchavardan was not a glutton, nor was he an epicure, but he did have a notorious weakness for sea slugs. He accepted the invitation. Nevertheless, he did not allow himself to feed for long before he got down to business.

  ‘Pokrov,’ said he, ‘did your Analytical Engine by chance have anything to do with the events of last night?’

  ‘No,’ said Ivan Pokrov. ‘What happened last night suggests someone was tampering with probability itself. My Engine lacks the power to do such, for it is but pieces of metal in conglomeration.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Varazchavardan, ‘it thinks.’

  ‘It does not think,’ said Pokrov. ‘It merely manipulates. As the prestidigitation of a conjurer is to the magic of a true sorcerer, so the manipulation in which the Engine indulges at my pleasure is to the freedoms of my thoughts and of yours.’

  Despite Pokrov’s denials, Varazchavardan insisted that he would inspect the Analytical Engine after lunch.

  By this time Chegory had realised Olivia was casting little avid glances in the direction of the wonderworker. He found himself possessed of a ferocious jealousy. What did old man Varazchavardan have that Chegory Guy didn’t? Answers numerous could be postulated, for, after all, Varazchavardan was a member of the Imperial Court whereas young Chegory was but a dragonless rock gardener. But let the truth be known. The sweet Ashdan lass had not conceived a lust for the wonderworker himself but for his robes, silken ceremonial robes most marvellously embroidered with serpentine dragons ablaze with goldwork and argentry, with emerald and vermilion, with incarnadine and ultramarine.

  Chegory, who did not know this, was relieved when lunch drew to a close.

  When lunch did end, Ox No Zan absented himself so he could keep his appointment with Doctor Death. Artemis Ingalawa went back to her algorithmic labours. Pokrov told Chegory and Olivia to busy themselves with the mathematical studies which were (as always) to occupy their afternoon, then he led Varazchavardan into the Counting House where the Analytical Engine was at work.

  Pokrov gave his standard explanation of the Engine’s function, and concluded by saying:

  ‘Thus what we see here is no more than the mechanical manipulation of patterns. The person who devises the protocols by which those patterns will be manipulated is exercising intelligence. So too is the person who designs the actual mechanisms which enable data to be processed by such algorithms. There is however no demon in the machine itself. It knows nothing, lacks all sense of self, and is ruled by the same mechanical necessities which rule a stone rolling helplessly downhill. In other words, it cannot think, does not think and never will think.’

  But despite Pokrov’s explanation, the Master of Law found the Analytical Engine no more scrutable than before. The collosal construction (otherwise known as the mills of Jod) still defied his understanding. It was still no more than a maze of brass and steel, of intermeshed cogs made of titanium (the sole source of which is fire vanes taken from the corpses of dragons), of levers and wires and ratcheting mechanisms.

  ‘What is it doing now?’ said the Master of Law.

  ‘A statistical analysis of the recent census,’ said Ivan Pokrov. ‘The inland revenue wants to know how best they can screw more money out of the populace. We’ll give them the answer. In time! The mills of Jod grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly small.’

  The albinotic sorcerer could take a hint. He knew what Pokrov was telling him. That the Analytical Institute had friends in high places. It worked for the inland revenue, no less. Very well then! Even Varazchavardan was reluctant to go up against the inland revenue department, at least for the moment. Nevertheless, when he seized power on Jod he would make a point of smashing the Engine and burning Pokrov alive.

  On principle.

  What principle?

  A very simple principle: namely, that anything occult is dangerous. Varazchavardan’s main objection to the existence of the Analytical Engine was that he could not for the life of him understand it. Oh, he could see the hard-muscled engine operators sweating at the treadmills. He could see how the transmission system worked, feeding the energy of manpowered cylinders to whirling metal.

  He saw copper cards with their inscrutable arrays of punched holes. He saw other operators feeding these cards into the interstices of the Engine. He saw needles descend upon the cards — and, in his imagination, he substituted Ivan Pokrov’s flesh for the insensate cards thus tortured.

  All this he saw.

  But — how did any of this senseless insectile activity allow the Engine to think? And it did think, it did, it must, it had to! Else how could it outperform even the hard-headed analysts of the inland revenue? Pokrov was lying. Had to be lying. This conglomeration of metal was a farcical front. There was true magic hidden here. Somewhere. There was Power. And Varazchavardan vowed to win its secrets from Pokrov’s seared and bleeding corpus before he made that corpus a corpse.

  With his inspection completed, Varazchavardan took his leave of Ivan Pokrov at the door of the Analytical Institute and began to walk down to the shore. He had almost got there when fluids began to well up from the wealth fountains which studded the slopes below the Counting House.

  ‘Oh no!’ said Pokrov.

  Oh yes! It was happening! Nothing could stop it!

  As Pokrov watched helplessly, familiar pungent odours filled the air as chemicals flooded out of the wealth fountains. The flood swelled around the ankles of Aquitaine Varazchavardan then rose higher yet with prodigious speed. The albinotic sorcerer was suddenly waist-deep in a veritable torrent of bile-green dikle and filthy grey shlug. He lost his footing and was swept away into the sea.

  ‘I hope he drowns,’ muttered Pokrov.

  Don’t get the wrong idea. Pokrov was a very nice man. But he knew the Analytical Institute and everyone associated with it would be ten thousand times safer if Varazchavardan came to a nasty end.

  However, Aquitaine Varazchavardan swam with remarkable facility to the harbour bridge and hauled himself aboard. Then he stood up. The Master of Law was not given to histrionics, and therefore did not turn and shake his fist. Nevertheless, as he set off for the shores of Injiltaprajura, something about his purposeful stride made his mood perfectly clear.

  CHAPTER SIX

  One would like to think that all this time Chegory Guy and Olivia Qasaba were hard at work on their mathematical studies. But they were not. Olivia had a considerable aptitude for figures yet disliked them. Her redskinned companion lacked both aptitude and liking entirely.

  It must be admitted that, in spite of lacking such, young Chegory had nevertheless made considerable progress in the study of numbers both real and unreal, positive and negative, whole and fractional, prime and partial, imaginary and obscene, and by now the construction of basic algorithms was second nature to him. He was familiar also with the mathematics of potentials and unpotentials, of points and infinities, of singularities and of blanks.

  Furthermore, while Chegory lacked Olivia’s intellectual finesse, he had nevertheless absorbed basic games theory, and understood the sociopolitical implications of the same. He had attained a degree of competence in the slippery contextual arithmetic of hyperspace, in the calculus of probability curves in n-dimensional true space and in the calculation of the structure of fundamental topographical harmonics in polydimensional non-space.

  However, he had been defeated entirely by Thaldonian Mathematics, which is essential to a correct understanding of everything from the nature of reality to the construction of trans-cosmic junctions, for it is that branch of theory developed to
assist with the description of that event-class associated with the manifestation of klayta, or, as Habada Kolebhavn has so elegantly termed them, ‘dynamic objects of intermittent existence and indefinite probability’. To put it more crudely, it is the mathematics of the stresses which exist between the probable and the improbable, without which an understanding of true Advanced Theory is impossible.

  I can understand Chegory’s problems, since I myself studied under Ivan Pokrov for thirty years yet remained equally defeated by Thaldonian Mathematics. Nevertheless, Chegory’s failure to persist in his studies in the absence of his tutor shows the Ebrell Islander in him manifesting itself beyond a doubt.

  [One’s opinion of the Originator is much diminished by finding the Originator equating his own talents with those of an Ebrell Islander, albeit in a very minor field of endeavour. One also feels that the Originator has here indulged in language which is unnecessarily pretentious, with the consequence that much is here mentioned which is difficult to explicate. ‘Games theory’, for example, presumably refers to score-keeping in so-called amusements such as the ritualised conflict known in the Ebrell Islands as ruck, but you would not know it from the Text. One regrets the lack of any footnote to identify the briefly cited Habada Kolebhavn, unknown to our own researchers. (There is a minor poet of Obooloo called Handana Koden-darden, but this is most unlikely to be the person referred to.) The term ‘klayta’ is unknown to our lexicographers. Context suggests that it refers to dreams, or, possibly, to memories, to shadows or to lies. But how could one have a mathematics of dreams? Or of shadows? Here it is worth repeating that a diligent search of all the authorities has confirmed that only four mathematical operations are possible, these being addition, subtraction, multiplication and division. Some of our Readers have suggested that the Text above implies otherwise. If so, then the Text is wrong. A brief application of common sense will soon show why this is so. This Commentary inserted by Order of Jan Borgentasko Ronkowski, Fact Checker Superior.']

  Usually Chegory was at pains to hide his idleness, but on this occasion he was caught out, for when Ivan Pokrov returned to the study room he found Olivia and Chegory playing paper-stone-scissors.

  ‘Why aren’t you working?’ said Pokrov.

  ‘With that stink?’ said Olivia. ‘How can we possibly work when we can’t hardly breathe?’

  It must be admitted that the stench of so much dikle and shlug was hard to endure. Nevertheless, Pokrov refused to admit to sympathy.

  ‘We will work,’ he said. ‘We will begin with a review of basic solid-shape topology. With a viva voce examination, in fact.’ So saying, he opened a dusty cupboard untouched for many months, took out a box of shapes and began. ‘What is this?’ he said, holding up a solid wooden model resembling an octahedron with a three-faced pyramid on each face.

  ‘That,’ said Chegory Guy, ‘is a triakisoctahedron.’

  Pokrov was dismayed by this languid response. He had hoped to stir up some passion in his pupils, which was why he had deliberately insulted them by turning their attention to such kindergarten stuff. But obviously the Ebrell Islander at least was incapable of intellectual arousal, or at any rate not today.

  In truth, Chegory couldn’t care less whether they studied the most basic of basics or the Higher Arcana. He disliked the study of the inhumanities entirely. Even the presence of Olivia Qasaba failed to add enjoyment to the study session. He almost wished he was with Ox Zan, enduring the tender mercies of Doctor Death.

  On and on went the lessons, until at last they took a break for afternoon tea, for which Artemis Ingalawa joined them. Afternoon tea! Ah yes! One of the greatest achievements of the Izdimir Empire is to have universalised this custom. How pleasant it is to sit outdoors drinking green tea and making educated guesses as to the provenance of the same while watching the clouds form and reform.

  Only on Jod in the season of Fistavlir there were no clouds. There was only the aching blue sky. And the stench of dikle and shlug outpouring from the wealth fountains. And there was no mystery in the provenance of the tea. It came of course from Chay, that harbourless highrise island which lies southeast of Untunchilamon, mid-ocean between Injiltaprajura and the shores of Yestron.

  Chay, of course, is the leading source of tea, coffee and spices of all descriptions for the area [Here an extensive geography lesson has been excised. By Order, Eder Digest, Redactor Minor. There is nothing more tedious than the Originator of this Text when said Originator yields to the didactic impulse.]

  There thus they sat, drinking tea, looking for all the world as if they were aristocrats in Ang. While they were thus amusing themselves, a small sun-bright sphere came bouncing through the air.

  ‘Shabble!’ said Ivan Pokrov sharply. ‘You’re too bright.’ The impersonator of Powers turned the light down to a dull glow. Then, in high excitement, began to tell a wild story of adventures Downstairs, of dangers encountered and prisoners captured. Chegory, Olivia, Ingalawa and Ivan Pokrov listened till Shabble was done.

  ‘So you captured some pirates,’ said Pokrov, only half-believing this story. ‘What have you done with them, then? Have you eaten them?’

  ‘I went to sleep,’ said Shabble simply. ‘When I woke up, they were gone.’ Then, in very hurt tones: ‘But they said they wouldn’t! They promised! I made them! They said they’d be as good as gold, they wouldn’t go anywhere, they wouldn’t run away. But they did, they did, they did! Alone, I was all alone, all alone Downstairs, I woke up and they were gone, gone, they left me, oh, oh, oh!’

  ‘There now!’ said Pokrov, in his most soothing tones. ‘You’re not alone now. You’re with us.’

  ‘Yes, so I am!’ said Shabble, brightening both literally and metaphorically. ‘Let’s go hunt them, shall we? I don’t like Downstairs, but it’s all right if you go with me. We could catch them. We’d be famous. They’ve got the wishstone, we’d be heroes if we found them.’

  ‘The wishstone?’ said Pokrov. ‘You didn’t tell us about that!’

  ‘Oh, they stole it from the treasury,’ said Shabble.

  Pokrov thought this most likely untrue, for the treasury of Injiltaprajura was heavily guarded. If pirates had fought their way into it overnight the whole city would have heard about it by now.

  ‘I think you’re fibbing,’ said Pokrov.

  ‘I’m not!’ said Shabble, justifiably hurt.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter either way,’ said Pokrov. ‘I’m not going Downstairs. We might meet a dorgi.’

  Immediately Pokrov wished he had kept silent. He had spoken about dorgis! In front of Ingalawa! Unless he was careful he’d find himself next confessing knowledge of the Golden Gulag.

  ‘All the dorgis are dead,’ said Shabble. ‘They died a hundred thousand years ago.’

  ‘What,’ said Chegory, ‘is a dorgi?’

  ‘A type of dog,’ said Pokrov, inventing furiously to cover his blunder.

  His intent was to lie, but it happens that he accidentally told the truth. For there is a breed of dogs known as dorgis. They are ferocious killers bred in Dalar ken Halvar by cross-breeding Lashund hunting hounds with the heavyweight canines known as thogs.

  ‘A type of dog?’ said Ingalawa. ‘I’ve never heard of dogs Downstairs.’

  ‘They’re not dogs!’ said Shabble in high excitement. ‘They’re killers, killers, that’s what they are. The Golden Gulag had thousands of them.’

  ‘Gulag?’ said Olivia. ‘What’s a gulag?’

  ‘Something from Shabble’s imagination,’ said Pokrov.

  ‘It is not neither,’ said Shabble. ‘It’s an empire, that’s what it is. A huge empire with seven planets and fifty thousand million people, oh, and the sunships, they were the best, I got a ride to the sun once, that was the very best of all. I’m a sun myself, really, but I can’t see myself. But I saw the sun we went to. And there was music, music, all over the Gulag there was music, you don’t have music like that now.’

  ‘Very nice,’ said Artemis Ingalawa in her adult-
to-child voice. ‘Now tell us, friend Shabble. Have you any idea what made the lights turn strange in the night?’

  Shabble pleaded ignorance. But had uncomfortable memories of the Days of Wrath when weapons such as the psionic torque were in common use. Weapons for disrupting probability. That war was a terrible thing because Shabble got hurt, and badly hurt, and almost died. Worse — most of Shabble’s friends did die. Shabble refused to answer any more questions.

  ‘You know!’ said Ingalawa. ‘You must tell us!’

  In response, Shabble began to sing in a monotonous tang-tong imitative of a bell.

  ‘Stop that!’ said Ingalawa.

  Shabble did, and imitated instead cantor and choir exalting in the manner of the Temple of the Higher Waters. When Shabble was in such a mood, one could curse or landdamne the lonely one all day to no effect. Ingalawa, losing patience, stuffed Shabble into a teapot and stalked off to renew her algorithmic labours.

  ‘Come on,’ said Pokrov to Chegory and Olivia, ‘let’s get back to our studies.’

  On through the afternoon they studied, with the two students growing ever more languescent despite valiant efforts on Pokrov’s part. While they studied, ever did the dikle and shlug pour forth from the wealth fountains and pollute the waters of, the Laitemata.

  Dikle and shlug. What precisely are they, these strange substances? They are of course two of the most important exports of Untunchilamon, and at the time with which this chronicle deals they were also the main source of income for the Analytical Institute.

  Shlug is everywhere sought by the best metalworkers, for it is the ideal grease for preserving metalwork of any description against corrosion, particularly during long-term storage. This is precisely what shlug was used for in the days of the Golden Gulag. It is thick, stable, vile-smelling and boring, except when it combines its dull grey with the bile-green of dikle to form a thin, rainbow-hinting fluid.

  Dikle, on the other hand, is intrinsically far more interesting, for it is a thixotropic substance which will abruptly convert from solid to liquid when suitably excited by heat or vibration. When it converts from a slightly yielding solid to a free-flowing liquid it forms a fluid which has the texture and constituency of olive oil. Peasants lubricate the axles of their carts with it. It is said that swordsmiths use it to judge temperature, for it is at welding heat that dikle changes from fluid to liquid. It is also known that the whores of the Flesh Temple of [Excised! By Order, Drax Lira, Redactor Major.]