The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers coaaod-6

by Hugh Cook

  ‘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.

  He took a deep, slow breath. Then another. Calming himself. Steadying himself. How did he feel? Well actually, not too bad. In fact, he felt fine. He felt good. He realised the initial shock had been due more to his own fear than the liquor’s chemistry. He reminded himself that he was, after all, an Ebrell Islander. For generations, anyone born on the Ebrells had perished in youth if they lacked the capability to handle hard liquor. Centuries of selective breeding had given Chegory a distinct genetic advantage when it came to handling strong drink.

  I won’t die tonight. Not if I’m careful.

  Thus thought Chegory Guy.

  But, nevertheless, he warned himself to be very, very careful. He nursed his drink, and was nursing it still when a trio of soldiers entered the saloon.

  ‘Peace,’ said Hooch Neesberry, seeing Chegory’s alarm. ‘These are regular customers of ours.’

  Then — doubtless out of devilment — he introduced Chegory to the newcomers.

  ‘So!’ said one, ‘so you’re the infamous Chegory Guy! Shabble’s companion in crime, are you? Oho, are you in trouble! There’s men burnt bad who’ve sworn to bum you alive.’
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  ‘I’m innocent!’ protested Chegory.

  ‘You’re an Ebby, aren’t you?’ said the other soldier. ‘So how can you be innocent?’

  This witticism set both soldiers to laughing.

  Chegory’s fingers were already fists. A sullen anger hardened his face. He was but a joke away from brawling.

  ‘Come, friends,’ said Neesberry, seeing that brawling was imminent. ‘Finish your drinks and come with me. I’ve something to show you.’

  Then he led Chegory and his two Ashdan companions from the saloon and into some quiet back rooms where there were a few pallets on the floor.

  ‘Here we sleep at times like this when it’s best to lie low,’ said Neesberry. ‘Likely you’re tired. Feel free to get your heads down and get some rest.’

  Chegory said he would be more than happy to do so. Indeed, he was tired. It had been a long, long day. His sleep the night before had been disrupted by disturbances at the Dromdanjerie; he had worked hard physically all morning and mentally all afternoon; he had been shaken up by an encounter with a kraken then further traumatised by his sudden arrest and Shabble’s foolhardy assault on the arresting soldiers.

  He was exhausted.

  ‘You sleep, then,’ said Ingalawa. ‘I’m going to have a word with Ivan and friend Firfat.’

  Go she did, with Neesberry departing with her. But Olivia elected to stay. Strangely, Chegory found fatigue miraculously dispelled once he found himself thus alone with the young Ashdan lass in a room well-equipped with shadows, beds and privacy.

  How long must we speculate before we divine the thoughts which must necessarily have presented themselves to his mind?

  ‘Precious is the day and precious is the flesh which enables the day.’ So says the Creed, which also tells us that ‘Great is the Gift of Life and sacred is the preservation of the same.’ Yet in our day-to-day life habit dulls our appreciation of existence, our awareness of what life has to offer and our knowledge of our own mortality.

  Since Chegory Guy had long sought safety in habit, routine and the renunciation of ambition, he had long been more dull than most. In childhood he had endured the terrors of the pogrom which had claimed the lives of his mother, brother and sister. Thereafter, his greatest ambition had been to be a rock, something utterly insignificant and inoffensive, something the world would never think worth the effort of destruction. Chegory had lived by rote for a long, long time. (Here we are of course dealing with time as youth measures that mystery, for old age would think young Chegory had scarcely been born.)

  By rote he had lived till this day, when events both major and minor had disrupted the even tenor of his cherished routines. His brush with death and with the law had awakened him to a terrifying appreciation of his own mortality. He also found himself alive to the world of the flesh.

  To the world of beauty.

  Olivia Qasaba!

  Long had he denied the lust which urged him to possess her. Yet in the here and now it was hard to deny his desire. Soft were her curves and bright was the sheen of her skin. A light was alive in her eyes, and he allowed himself to imagine that she was remembering the valour with which he had contended against the kraken on the harbour bridge.

  The caution which had governed his relations with Olivia in the Dromdanjerie was at low ebb. He was possessed by something akin to the recklessness which stirs the blood in time of war and sets the appetites seething. He imagined Olivia indulging him with a kiss. He was conscious of the gloss of her hair and of a certain fragrance which hung about her. He imagined But we all know exactly what he imagined. There is no need to elaborate further. Suffice to say that he studied the young woman intently while pretending to scrutinise his fingertips.

  Olivia of the moods uncertain! What was she thinking of? What thinking? What? Only one way to find out. Ask!

  ‘Olivia,’ said Chegory.

  He meant to make her name itself a poem. But he was truly tired despite his enthusiasm for the life of the moment. His tongue slurred her name, thickened it, made her middle-aged and dowdy, insulted her beyond redemption. Or so thought Chegory. Yet Olivia answered him:

  ‘Yes?’

  Yes. She said yes. But to what? To nothing, for the moment. But one day, surely, she would say yes to all. To him, to his strength, to his need, to his urgency.

  Chegory found himself trembling.

  Then an outbreak of uproar abruptly ended this delightful dalliance. The two young people got to their feet in alarm as the building echoed with shouts, screams, the thumping of trampling boots and the resounding crash of sledgehammers smashing down doors.

  ‘Gods!’ said Olivia. ‘What is it?’

  ‘We’re being raided,’ said Chegory. ‘Come on! Let’s get out of here!’

  But attempts to escape were futile. Chegory and Olivia had scarcely got out of the bedroom when shadows jumped them. Chegory was seized. Slammed up against a wall. Mobbed by a good half dozen soldiers.

  ‘Help!’ screamed a nearby panic.

  His own throat shouted:

  ‘Olivia!’

  Then he was slammed again, hit, struck, pounded. All voice knocked out of him by twenty knuckles, thirty. An elbow hard against his face then sharp, sharp, a swordpoint sharp-needling into his throat.

  ‘Don’t move, Ebby!’ said a snarl. ‘Or you’re dead!’

  ‘You’re under arrest,’ said an authority. '

  Chegory felt his legs buckling.

  ‘Don’t move, I said!’

  But down he went regardless, helpless to save himself, the world crashing around him as he fell.

  He was kicked to his feet.

  ‘You’re under arrest,’ said a triumph.

  ‘I told him that already,’ said an authority first heard but moments before.

  Then another voice:

  ‘The charge is drug pushing.’

  ‘Wha-’

  Thus his throat, mouthing a single syllable void of meaning. His legs void of strength. Curt efficiency dragging him away already. His feet kicking behind him. Screaming. Someone screaming. Olivia, Olivia!

  But Chegory was helpless to save her. All fight, all sense, all thought had been knocked out of him. Like a carcase he was carried, dragged, handled, thrust. He had lost track of where he was, where they were taking him, how far they had come.

  Then a bright and blinding light lit his surroundings. He was in the main hall of the warehouse. Artemis Ingalawa was struggling, fighting four soldiers who had hold of a limb apiece. Firfat Labrat and Ivan Pokrov were being hustled out of an office at swordpoint, protesting loudly. Above Light light light!

  Shabble, surely.

  ‘Chegory!’ cried Shabble. ‘Chegory, dearest!’

  Then, in extremis, Chegory Guy found his voice.

  ‘Don’t do anything!’ yelled Chegory.

  If Shabble let rip and fried a few soldiers, then Chegory Guy would most certainly get the blame. Then the army might of its own initiative launch a pogrom against all Injiltaprajura’s surviving Ebrell Islanders, no matter what the Empress said.

  ‘Burning,’ chanted Shabble. ‘Burning burning burning.’ Then Pokrov’s voice rose above the uproar in a shout large-volumed by his desperation.

  ‘Shabble! Come here! Right now! Or I will send you to a therapist immediately!’

  To Chegory’s great relief, the lord of misrule obeyed, and no further threats of incineration were issued from that source as Chegory and his fellow captives were hustled outside into the night.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Shortly after the raid on Firfat Labrat’s premises in the dockside quarter of Marthandorthan, some prisoners were brought to the gates of the Temple of Torture in Goldhammer Rise. Firfat himself was not one of those prisoners. At that very moment he was back at his warehouse remunerating the soldiers who had just done him a favour by demonstrating to him the manifest inadequacy of his security arrangements.

  Chegory, however, was in no position to buy himself out of trouble. For a start, he had no
money. Also, unlike Firfat he did not have friends prepared to help him with negotiations. Firfat, on the other hand, had a judge, three priests, a couple of bankers and Injiltaprajura’s harbourmaster all on his side.

  Could Firfat have saved young Chegory Guy? Perhaps. If he had really exerted himself. But then again, perhaps not. After all, the soldiers did have a quota to fill, and thus were glad to be able to deliver Chegory Guy, Olivia Qasaba, Artemis Ingalawa and Ivan Pokrov to the detention centre.

  Shabble was not technically under arrest but bobbed along with them anyway, soaring out of the way whenever an irritated soldier tried to swat the beacon-bright summoner of all night-flying insects.

  At the temple gates the prisoners were signed for, as if they were a consignment of cassava or so many sacks of coconuts. Then they were taken into the temple precincts, which were crowded with detainees of all ages, races and sexes, many slumped in sleep already despite certain obstacles to peaceful repose in the form of squalling babies and squabbling in-laws.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Chegory, ‘it doesn’t look too bad. Let’s find a quiet corner and get settled.’

  To Chegory’s horror, Ingalawa and Pokrov had no intention at all of quietly settling down. Instead, they began to protest long and loud, demanding lawyers, bail, release, apologies. Chegory feared they would all get beaten up. He was already stiff and sore from the thumping he had taken in Firfat’s warehouse, and had no wish whatsoever to add to his injuries. To his relief, Ingalawa’s protests diminished after a fellow captive explained that they could not get access to lawyers because a State of Emergency had been declared.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘That explains it. Okay then, we’ll make the best cf it. But I do wish we had mosquito nets.’

  These Ashdan liberals! Weird is too weak a word for it! Ingalawa typifies some of the attitudes of the breed. She had protested vehemently solely on the grounds that she was being deprived of her legal rights. On a point of principle, in other words. For that she had risked a beating. Then, once she knew their detention was lawful, all her objections had ceased. It was not being locked up that worried her — no, for she was tough, she was with freinds, she could hack it. No trouble!