The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers coaaod-6

by Hugh Cook

  Chegory kicked and struggled but his Empress had him in a grip of iron. He could not get free.

  ‘He’s burning, he’s burning!’ sobbed Chegory.

  ‘I can see that,’ said Justina. ‘But what are we to do? Get burnt along with him?’

  Every person who was even halfway sober was staring at the incendiary cloud which had replaced the conjuror. Even Xter and Varazchavardan were transfixed by the sight. Already huge gouts of smoke were beginning to agglomerate to form Something huge and writhing.

  Then forth from the smoke and flames it burst. A dragon! A pellucid beast the size of an ox. An ethereal monster still wreathed in the slatternly smoke of its creation, its inner organs transparent, its diaphanous wings shimmering with rainbow. It flew heavenwards, crashed into a chandelier, lost its grip on the air and fell to the floor with a thump. It got to its feet. Shook itself. Raked the floor with claws fast-hardening to jacinth.

  ‘Well I never!’ said Justina, glorious with wine. ‘Odolo’s a weredragon! This is a new one on me! I’ve heard of werewolves and werepigs — even weremice and were-hampsters, come to that — but never a weredragon!’

  ‘Um, um,’ said Chegory, hunting desperately for words, ‘um, ah, why don’t we run?’

  ‘Odolo wouldn’t hurt us,’ said Justina calmly. ‘Not even as a dragon. He’s far too much of a personal friend.’ Chegory had too much pride to beg therefore did not beg to differ. Yet thought the fast-transforming dragon was making the voisinage decidedly unhealthy. Others thought likewise, for the Grand Hall was filled with wails of terror as guests and waiters alike fled screaming. Even Aquitaine Varazchavardan was retreating at the fastest pace which could be remotely conceived to be consonant with dignity, though Dolglin Chin Xter stood his ground.

  The dragon was strengthening. Hardening. Its rainbow wings armouring themselves with opal. Its visionary body taking on mass, weight and obstinance. Its water-clear inner organs pulsed with red blood, assumed the hues of intestinal blue and kidney brown, and then a moment later were lost to sight beneath sheathing muscle, the muscle itself disappearing an eyeblink later as the imbricated transparency of scales became dull, obliviating ash. This ash hardened to the colours of flame which rippled as the dragon flexed its strength then roared.

  Chegory and Justina were by then virtually alone in the Grand Hall. Justina cooed with wonder as she gazed upon the dragon. A magnifical beast it was, its body gleaming with a high lustre, its polished eyes flaring with flame and rainbow mixed. Then it roared. Gymnic firebursts cavalcaded from its mouth in a prodigious display of incendiarism. This was going too far.

  ‘Guards!’ shouted Chegory, meaning to command Justina’s men into battle.

  But there were no guards left. All had fled, even the scimitarists appointed to watch over the Empress during the meal. A couple of discarded cork blocks was all that remained of their presence.

  ‘Oh my god!’ said Justina abruptly, reality displacing wonder from her voice. ‘There’s Odolo!’

  There he was indeed. Odolo was cowering on the floor aneath a table. So he was not a weredragon after all! Instead, conjuror and dragon were two separate entities.

  ‘You!’ yelled the eldest of the pirates in the starvation cage. ‘Let us out, let us out!’

  Chegory needed no further urging — for he was seized by inspiration. He wrested the key to the starvation cage from the imperial ape, slammed the key into the lock, wrenched it round and threw the door open. The pirates bolted instantly. The dragon outbreathed its fury as they fled, but its flamethrowing efforts fell short. Meanwhile Chegory grabbed the Empress Justina and dragged her into the cage closing the door behind them.

  We see from this that young Chegory Guy was not destined to fight with dragons in the time-honoured heroic tradition, to win blood-bought glory or to slay a nightmare with but sword alone. No, his first thought was to seek shelter lest he and his lady be eaten. Unfortunately an over-consumption of alcohol had fuddled his wits, and he had yet to realise that iron bars will not protect against the dangers of incineration.

  ‘Vazzy!’ cried Justina. ‘He’ll be eaten!’

  The imperial ape doubtless shared his mistress’s concern, for the animal was struggling against its bonds. Its specially weighted chair rocked as it threw itself to right then left. Then its leather ankle cuffs burst asunder and it was off, screaming in rage and fury as it fled through the nearest door.

  ‘Be very still,’ said Chegory to his Empress. ‘Be — be a rock.’

  This was good advice. Nevertheless, it is to be regretted that in his panic young Chegory again was guilty of a lapse in etiquette, for he spoke his words not in Janjuladoola or even in Toxteth but in his native Dub. Whether the Empress Justina understood — or even heard what he said — is a moot point. For his words were virtually obliterated by the ear-shattering roar of a dragon in anger.

  The fell monster was advancing on Dolglin Chin Xter, sorcerer of Yestron, the sole occupant of the Grand Hall who had refused to run from danger. Xter stood his ground. He was too sure of his skill and too experienced in disaster to be dismayed or agazed by a mere monster.

  With bombastic wing-claps the fabricant of fire advanced upon the wonderworker. They clashed in a swirl of smoke, a cascade of colours. Chegory expected to see Chin Xter reduced in an instant to a smoking cinder or a blood-boltered raggage of trampled jelly. But when smoke and colour cleared away, there stood the wonderworker in triumph with the dragon, mortally wounded, writhing at his feet.

  Xter’s triumph was short-lived, for, a moment later, the heroic slayer of dragons swayed on his feet then quietly fainted. The dying monster began to drag itself toward the comatose wonderworker. Chegory flung open the door of the starvation cage and hurled himself across the hall. He swooped on Xter, grabbed the sorcerer by the hair and hauled him clear of the scrabbling firebrute.

  ‘Bravo!’ cried the Empress Justina.

  Chegory smiled in triumph then looked for a weapon with which he could finish off the dragon. But there was no such implement to hand. Never mind. Already someone had gone back into the Grand Hall. Who? The corpse master Uckermark — who dared venture close to the dragon even though indigo flames were outbreathing from its mouth. Chegory — and Chegory alone — saw the corpse master feed something to the dragon.

  What?

  Chegory could not tell, for the thing was wrapped in a napkin. But the dragon gulped it down, whatever it was, then expired in moments, as if this last insult to the organism had ensured its death.

  Guards were coming back into the hall, Varazchavardan with them. The Master of Law pointed a bony finger at the conjurer Odolo, who was still underneath a table, and said:

  ‘Arrest that man! The charges are performing magic mala fide! Endangering human life and sanity by sorcery most treacherous! High treason, revolution, insurrection, breach of the peace!’

  ‘I have no magic!’ protested Odolo, crawling out from underneath the table as he did so. He stood up. ‘Conjuring, conjuring, that’s all it is! Illusions! All done with mirrors!’

  Then Odolo said no more, for he was seized, a hood was hauled down over his face and, struggling all the while, he was dragged away.

  ‘Vazzy!’ said the Empress Justina severely. ‘I’ll hold you responsible for Odolo’s good health and safety.’

  ‘You don’t think he’s innocent, do you?’ said Varazchavardan. ‘What’re you thinking of? A pardon? For him? After this?’

  ‘I’m thinking of a fair trial,’ said Justina. ‘I want him in one piece for that. Do we understand each other?’

  ‘We do,’ said Varazchavardan.

  At least, he understood her. He was not at all sure that she understood him. Which was doubtless just as well.

  ‘You have one other job,’ said Justina. ‘To find the wishstone! Where is it?’

  ‘Well, it was-’

  ‘I know where it was!’ said Justina. ‘I want to know where it is now!’

  Very shortly that question o
n every tongue, resulting in an uproar better imagined than described, for these, the Highest and Greatest of Untunchilamon, indulged themselves in outcry like the faex populi on point of riot. Doors were sealed, guards posted at every exit, and every single person was searched, not excluding Varazchavardan himself. Even young Chegory Guy was searched.

  The search was still going on when undokondra ended and the ghost bells crashed out to announce the start of bardardornootha. By then, Chegory Guy was reeling with fatigue. Even the Empress Justina was close to exhaustion. She had a constitution which would have been envied by a water buffalo, but nevertheless the festivities and alarums of the night had left her fit for little more than sleep.

  It was then that the corpse master Uckermark approached her.

  ‘Justina,’ said he.

  ‘Speak,’ said she.

  ‘I would like to remove the dragon for dissection. It’s worth a lot if it’s done while fresh.’

  Justina knew the truth of this. Many precious substances can be extracted from the fresh flesh of a dragon. Not least of these are the wondrous dyes which give waterfast blues, greens, reds and yellows. But dissection to secure such has to be done quickly for these substances are fragile and swift to decay.

  ‘Fifty per cent for the treasure,’ she said, meaning she laid claim to that portion of the corpse-worth on behalf of the state.

  ‘Fifty per cent,’ responded Uckermark. ‘Done!’ There was no haggling because these are a corpse master’s standard terms for dragon dissection. Nevertheless, Uckermark did venture to ask for something in addition. ‘My lady,’ said he, ‘the work will be done quicker if I can have my apprentice’s assistance.’

  ‘You need young Chegory?’ said Justina. ‘Very well then. Take him! There’s always another night.’

  It truth, Justina was glad to be thus rid of the young Ebrell Islander, for, while she did not want to hurt his feelings by rejecting him, the demands of sleep were fast overwhelming those of every other appetite. Her sister Theodora would not have been so quick to let a virile young man escape her clutches. But then, Theodora was already intimately engaged, and had been for most of that night.

  Soon the dead dragon was manhandled onto a fish-cart. A dozen slaves were given the job of taking the cart to Lubos and half a score of soldiers went along to protect the convoy from human marauders and (more likely and more dangerous during bardardornootha) the depredations of vampire rats.

  Down Lak Street they went as far as the Cabal House of Injiltaprajura’s wonderworkers. Then, to the dismay of those doing the hard work, they had to turn down Skindik Way. Such was the steepness of the street and the weight of the dead dragon that Chegory and Uckermark had to lend their strength to the sweating slaves lest the cart escape. The road levelled out as they reached Lubos. Then they had a difficult job finding a way through the slumland maze to Uckermark’s corpse shop, for many a path which they tried proved to be too narrow for the cart. Even where the way was wide enough the boardwalk creaked ominously beneath the overloading weight.

  But at last they were there.

  The dragon was offloaded.

  Then slaves and soldiers departed with the empty cart. They departed swiftly — more than glad to escape from the claustrophobic stench of the corpse shop.

  Since Yilda was so deaf she did not wake for the noise. Uckermark let his woman sleep on. He lit lanterns to maximise the brightness of the dissection chamber and then, with Chegory’s help, gathered together tools and containers as he prepared to anatomise the dragon.

  ‘Have you cut up many dragons?’ said Chegory.

  ‘Oh, many enough,’ said Uckermark. ‘Back when Wazir Sin was alive there were plenty of dragons out by the market gardens.’

  ‘Then what happened to them?’

  ‘When Sin died there was looting and so forth. The mob killed most of the dragons for the wealth they thought was within them. Well, wealth there was indeed, but it’s a tricky job getting it out. Here, pass me that chisel.’

  ‘What’re you going to do?’

  ‘Knock off some of these scales so I can cut off the creature’s head, for a start.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because, young man, the first rule of dragon dissection is also the most obvious. First make very, very sure your dragon is actually dead!’

  ‘It looks pretty dead to me,’ said Chegory.

  ‘And to me also,’ said Uckermark. ‘But I still want to be sure.’

  So saying, he began to chisel away the scales guarding the dragon’s neck.

  Chegory cleared his throat.

  ‘Where do you… uh… where do you expect to find the, um, well, the…’

  ‘So you know about that, do you?’ said Uckermark.

  ‘I, uh, well, I didn’t exactly see…’

  ‘But you saw enough then used your brain thereafter. I thought you saw! That’s why I’ve got you here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To bind you to secrecy with oaths formidable. Or, if you prove unamenable to oathing thus, to slaughter you in secrecy and hide your corpse beyond discovery.’

  ‘I’ll swear,’ said Chegory quickly.

  ‘By what do you swear?’ said Uckermark.

  ‘By my mother’s honour.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘By… by the honour of the Empress Justina.’

  ‘And? By what else do you swear?’

  ‘What else is there?’ said Chegory.

  ‘That’s for you to work out, not me!’

  ‘Uh, all right. I swear by — by my own honour! How’s that? And, uh, the Orgy God. Deity of the Ebrells! And, oh, I’ll think of something.’

  Chegory in fact thought of many more things to swear by as Uckermark chiselled away scales, cut off the dragon’s head, recovered the wishstone then meticulously performed the rest of the dissection.

  Meantime, Uckermark brooded about what he had done. If truth be told, the corpse master had snatched up the wishstone in the heat of the moment without any forethought whatsoever. He had been commanded by an urgent greed, a thoughtless grasping lust for wealth. It was a witless thing to do. Stupid, dangerous and foolhardy. It placed him in great danger. Still, Uckermark was a human being, and had as much capacity for self-delusion as did young Chegory. So by now he had constructed an elaborate belief structure to justify his actions — and had persuaded himself that he had thought the whole thing out before he acted.

  When the Calligrapher’s Union and its membership had been endangered by the general searches and wholesale arrests which had been turning Injiltaprajura upside down, then Uckermark’s first thought had been to hunt down the conspirators who had stolen the wishstone and to yield up both those thieves and the precious bauble itself to the Empress.

  That he had done.

  Or, to give to this historical account that meticulous precision which the rendition of fact demands, Log Jaris had done as much after detailed consultation with Uckermark. This, together with the events which had taken place at the banquet, had (or so Uckermark put it to himself) the following consequences:

  1. The original thieves were known to law and authority to have been uitlander pirates, the Malud marauders Al-ran Lars, Arnaut and Tolon.

  2. The only people presently under suspicion with regard to the loss of the wishstone were those who had been at the banquet.

  3. Uckermark and Chegory were most unlikely to be under any such suspicion for they had been searched and found to be innocent of theft. Log Jaris, presently under temporary detention at the palace along with most of the other guests from the banquet, would be found equally innocent.

  Under these circumstances, Uckermark told himself it was safe to retain possession of the wishstone. He thought it most likely that the searchers would concentrate on the pursuit of the Malud marauders, who had fled the palace during the general confusion. He neglected to remind himself that there was every chance that some clear-minded logician would eventually connect the disappearance of the wishstone with the r
emoval of the dragon from the pink palace. He told himself he was right to take it because:

  1. The wishstone was worth a fortune, as agents at the embassy maintained by the rulers of Parengarenga in Ashmolea were permanendy prepared to pay out that fortune for its purchase, no questions asked.

  2. He had long lusted for possession of the wishstone since it was the allure of that bauble which had drawn him to Untunchilamon in the first place.

  3. Since Aldarch III was almost certain to conquer Yestron and to turn his attentions to Untunchilamon thereafter, all sane people were thinking of quitting the island, and it would be foolish to leave empty-handed.

  As for Chegory Guy, he was just glad he had escaped from the palace with his life and his virginity intact. By now he had so much else to worry about that he frankly did not care who gained or retained possession of the wishstone. Thus he swore himself to secrecy in the matter, thinking his involvement in this criminal matter to be but a trifle compared to some of the other things he had on his plate.

  Elsewhere, at the Temple of Torture in Goldhammer Rise which was serving as a detention centre, all prisoners were being released. The Empress Justina had bethought herself of their plight, and, before she allowed herself to sleep, had given orders that they be liberated immediately. Though the wishstone was missing again, all in detention were automatically free of suspicion since the true original thieves had been identified.

  Thus it was that Artemis Ingalawa, her niece Olivia Qasaba and her employer Ivan Pokrov were released and made their way through the dark of bardardornootha to the Dromdanjerie. There they hammered on the door until sleepers awoke within and they were admitted.

  Shortly they were in conversation with a bleary-eyed Jon Qasaba.

  ‘Where’s Chegory?’ said Olivia.

  ‘I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him,’ said her father. ‘Wasn’t he with you?’

  ‘He was, he was, but he got taken away to the palace.’

  ‘Well,’ said her father, ‘there’s been all kind of goings on at the palace. Riots, mutiny, insurrection, attempted revolution and more. Not that anyone’s been killed, or not that I’ve heard. But you never know.’