by Hugh Cook
Injiltaprajura saw nothing of Shabble as istarlat’s shadows shortened toward noon. Shabble was still missing as the shadows of salahanthara lengthened toward sunset. Yet all that time the demon of Jod was furiously busy.
Doing what, you ask?
The answer is simple:
Falling.
From morn to noon fell Shabble, from noon to dewy eve — a summer’s day; and with the setting sun dropped from the zenith like a falling star. Steam in whispers vapoured into shreds as deep to the seas drove Shabble, descending fathoms five and full, drawn down to the depths where the moray weaves in coils than cobra greater, then drawn far deeper, down to the utter dark, the siltworm cold, the black of blindness enfolding.
Then Shabble uprose and surfaced.
Hovered briefly, then was gone, making for Injiltaprajura — leaving the dark seas rocking, rocking endlessly toward the shore.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
On the day of Shabble’s fall from the heavens, young Chegory' Guy spent much of the morning sleeping on Uckermark’s premises. Not that he slept well: he kept waking because of the exhausdng heat. Angry flies con-standy battered against frustrating gauze, ever intent on breaking through the windows to feast on the meat within. The oppressive stench of ruptured organs plagued both Chegory’s sleep and his waking moments.
At first, he shared the one bed with Uckermark and Yilda, but when the noon bells woke him he found both gone. He rolled over and did his best to get back to sleep — as if sleep could have cured his problems. At last the sun fell, the bat bells rang out to announce the end of salahanthara and the start of undokondra, and Chegory reluctantly roused himself from the bed. He was alive. That was something. But for how long would he stay alive? Did Uckermark mean to kill him, or what?
‘Gods,’ muttered Chegory. ‘What a mess.’
The day before yesterday was but a distant dream. Then, all unawares of the disasters ahead, Chegory had been quietly going about his business on the island ofjod. Raking gravel, chipping boulders, recovering rocks from the kitchen’s grease trap, then studying mathematics in the afternoon. It seemed more than a lifetime ago. No wonder he felt lightheaded, disorientated, frazzled!
With some reluctance Chegory went downstairs and there found Yilda busy preparing a meal and Uckermark deep in conversation with one of the Ngati Moana, a ferociously tattooed warrior with a pounamu pendant suspended from each ear. Chegory guessed at once — and he guessed correctly — that Uckermark was negotiating for a passage out of Untunchilamon. The corpse master intended to make his escape from Justina’s realm on one of the canoes of the Ngati Moana.
‘Who’s this?’ said the Ngati Moana warrior in the fluent Janjuladoola of an expert linguist.
‘Ballast,’ said Uckermark.
In that single word the corpse master told the warrior Chegory was someone of no account who could be written off if the need arose. He also told Chegory that he would be joining the flight from Untunchilamon by canoe.
Chegory groaned.
Not inwardly but outwardly.
‘I wouldn’t take that attitude if I were you, boy,’ said Uckermark. ‘Most men in my position would have mastered your murder by now.’
‘Where are we going?’ said Chegory. ‘Yestron? Ashmolea? Yam?’
‘Never you mind,’ said Uckermark. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
The corpse master was snappish, to say the least, for the day had allowed him time sufficient in which to realise temerity of his own actions. The risks were fearful. He might get caught with the wishstone in Injiltaprajura. Even if he escaped Untunchilamon by sea the canoe journey itself would be both arduous and dangerous. Before this game was played out he might get sunk, sharked, murdered, betrayed, imprisoned or tortured. If the worst came to the worst a vengeful wonderworker might even turn him into something horrible and inhuman.
‘I want to know now!’ insisted Chegory.
‘If you’re in that much of a hurry for an education,’ said Uckermark, ‘I’ll teach you why Ebrell Islanders live such short lives!’
‘No fighting!’ said Yilda. ‘Not while I’m cooking!’
The warrior of the Ngati Moana was silent throughout this argument. His face was inscrutable though in all probability he was outraged by such a display of bad manners. It was very bad form for Uckermark to allow a bad-tempered argument with a boy like Chegory to disrupt a formal negotiating session.
‘Where’s the wishstone?’ said Chegory.
‘Don’t even speak of it,’ said Uckermark. ‘Here. Come with me.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To the courtyard. The toilet. You need to go, surely.’
‘I don’t need help!’ said Chegory.
‘No,’ said Uckermark, ‘but you do need watching.’
The walls of his courtyard were twice man-height but he was sure that a nimble young Ebrell Islander could get over them quickly enough, particularly when inspired by fear. Once the toilet trip had been successfully completed Uckermark returned to his negotiations with the warrior of the Ngati Moana. They agreed that any swift departure would surely arouse suspicions.
Why did that matter? The double-hulled canoes of the Ngati Moana were the fastest things afloat; they could outrun any ship in fair winds or foul. Furthermore, since it was presently the season of Fistavlir, all ships were immobilised entirely while the canoes could still ride the coral current through the shallows of the Green Sea.
Mere escape was not the issue. Rather, the continuing freedom of the Ngati Moana was at stake. If rumour of their involvement in the theft of the wishstone ever reached the ears of Aldarch III then the Mutilator might choose to ban the entire coast of Yestron to their vessels. Uckermark could not have cared less but still had to respect the fears and interests of his co-conspirator.
‘With the winds of Fistavlir,’ said Uckermark. ‘What say we leave then?’
‘With the winds,’ agreed his much-tattooed interlocutor. ‘Providing our trading is done by then.’
With escape thus arranged Uckermark felt somewhat more secure. Little did he know! Disaster was imminent. For Log Jaris was even now approaching the corpse shop — and the unsuspecting bullman was being trailed by three Malud marauders.
When the pirates had escaped from the starvation cage in the pink palace they had fled without thought or plan. That was only natural. The presence of a large and angry dragon had not been conducive to methodical consideration or elaborate scheming. The pirates had fled downhill as far as the wonderworkers’ Cabal House before Al-ran Lars had called them to order.
Then Al-ran Lars had held a hurried council of war with his comrades Arnaut and Tolon. To retreat to their ship would be the equivalent to surrendering themselves since that was surely the first place where Justina’s soldiers would search for them. To retreat Downstairs would be equally foolish since that refuge had once already failed to shelter them from hunters with dogs.
Zazazolzodanzarzakazolabrik seemed to offer them their sole chance of safety. If they could escape into the northern wastes they could hope at least to live. But first they wanted some revenge. To be precise, they wanted to kill the monstrous bullman who had encompassed their capture Downstairs.
With that decided, the Malud marauders had gone into action. They had caught themselves a drunk for interrogation. A series of captures and interrogations had allowed them to locate the lair of Log Jaris — easy enough to do since it is hard to hide a bullman in a city as small as Injiltaprajura. Then they had staked out his speakeasy from a rooftop opposite. Then they had waited.
The Malud marauders had waited all through the night of their escape and the daylight that followed. Log Jaris had returned to his speakeasy at noon but there had been men with him — fellow members of the Calligrapher’s Union, though the vengeful pirates were not to know this.
At last, early in the evening, Log Jaris had left his lair. But not alone. The bullman had taken three men as bodyguard, for his way led through the s
treets of Lubos which he did not care to chance alone. The pirates had followed.
Even as Uckermark concluded his bargain with the warrior of the Ngati Moana his good frieild Log Jaris was drawing steadily nearer with the Malud marauders in catfoot pursuit.
The pirates were not the only threat the unsuspecting corpse master would soon have to confront. An alien wizard of the order of Xluzu, Pelagius Zozimus by name, was another.
Pelagius Zozimus, as Justina’s master chef, had been in a good position to gamer details on the loss of the wishstone, the breakout of the prisoners who had escaped from the starvation cage and all associated events. He had collated all the evidence and had produced a list of hypotheses which might explain the disappearance of the wishstone.
It might have been taken by the fleeing piratical prisoners, in which case its location would prove near impossible to discover.
Alternatively, the Empress Justina might have stolen the wishstone herself. Doubtless she had plans for escaping from Untunchilamon before minions of Aldarch III arrived to seize control of the island. If she sought to take the contents of the treasury with her then Injiltaprajura’s wonderworkers might prevent her, fearing the reprisals Aldarch III would exact if they did not. Thus she might well desire one and all to think the wishstone still missing.
There was also the possibility that a wonderworker might have absconded with the wishstone. But Zozimus, who had a low opinion of the will, wit and talent of such sorcerers, was inclined to discount this notion.
He was, however, intrigued by the news that the corpse master Uckermark had removed a dragon from the pink palace. Zozimus had deduced that the wishstone might well have been secreted within the corpse. The possibility was slight — one chance in fifty by his reckoning — but he thought it worth investigation.
Thus Zozimus had organised his colleagues-in-crime: the wizard Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin, the Yarglat adventurer Guest Gulkan, and the cut-throat from Chi’ash-lan who went by the name of Thayer Levant. They had located Uckermark’s corpse shop, had put it under observation, and, on noting the entry of the warrior of the Ngati Moana, had drawn the logical conclusions. These conclusions were that:
(i) Uckermark did indeed have the wishstone;
(ii) Uckermark planned to flee Untunchilamon by canoe;
(iii) If captured, the corpse master could be forced to tell where the wishstone was hidden.
So it came to pass that Pelagius Zozimus and his companions were preparing to raid the corpse shop even as Log Jaris drew near with a trio of murderous Malud marauders in his wake.
Simultaneously, Shabble came drifting in across the Laitemata. Shabble did not call into Ganthorgruk in pursuit of Odolo Shabblefriend, nor did the demon of Jod pop into the Analytical Institute to rouse Ivan Pokrov for an evening’s conversation. The shining one ignored the lure of the Dromdanjerie where many of Injiltaprajura’s best conversationalists lived out their days in cages.
Instead, Shabble flew straight to Uckermark’s corpse shop, for the imitator of suns was curious to find out why the wishstone was held there.
In this connection it must be noted that the wishstone was, among other things, a beacon. Ever did it announce its presence to those with ears attuned to its far-flying call. It radiated a species of coded energy once used by the peoples of the Golden Gulag to talk at distances greater than shouting. Such energy was easily baffled by the mass of stone, metal and plax of the underworld Downstairs — but from Uckermark’s corpse shop it signalled loud and clear.
Thus the stage was set for an epic confrontation.
Log Jaris reached the corpse shop even as Uckermark, Chegory and Yilda were sitting down to eat their evening meal. The three bodyguards who had so far protected the bullman peeled off, for they had other tasks to attend to. They were to rouse out other members of the Calligrapher’s Union who lived nearby and bring them to the corpse shop for a council of war.
The bullman knocked on the door. Uckermark was slow to answer, for, all too conscious of his own guilt and hence fearing a raid by Justina’s soldiery, he was arming himself for combat. Log Jaris knocked again. His bodyguards were out of sight.
The Malud marauders seized their chance and charged from the shadows. They screamed with murderous rage as they plunged toward the bullman. Log Jaris whirled — and saw his danger.
‘Keep back!’ roared Log Jaris. ‘Back — or die!’
Uckermark heard his friend without and flung wide the corpse shop’s door. Log Jaris leapt inside. Uckermark slammed the door. And the muscle man Tolon hit it with all his weight. The door burst asunder. Uckermark and Log Jaris were both sent sprawling. In stormed the three pirates.
Yilda grabbed a tiny glass vial filled with a brilliant blue fluid. She threw it at the floor. The flask burst. The fluid exploded on contact with the air. Dragon fire roared upwards. The pirate raiders flung up warding arms.
‘Get back!’ said Yilda, another vial already in her hand. ‘Back! Or the next will find your faces!’
The pirates hesitated. After all, she was only a woman. More to the point, Uckermark and Log Jaris — knocked to the floor by the down-crashing door — would be endangered by any fire which threatened the raiders.
That hesitation lost the pirates their kill.
Already Uckermark and Log Jaris were scrambling to their feet. Even as they did so Yilda was throwing herself into action. She had a mop, was throwing the vial to the air, was striking at it with the mop. The vial exploded into flame. With mop-head blazing, Yilda charged, screaming as she did so.
The pirates fled.
Out into the street they rushed — and almost impaled themselves on the blades of four swordsmen there standing.
The pirates ducked past the unexpected newcomers and fled.
‘Bastards!’ screamed Yilda. ‘Come back and fight like men!’
She bitterly regretted the escape of the enemy. After all, she had wasted two vials of the best blue flame on the battle. The vials themselves were fearfully expensive since they were made of glass. As for the blue flame — why, only a little of this can be extracted from even a most productive dragon corpse. Hence Yilda wanted at least a couple of kills out of the encounter.
‘Ho!’ said Log Jaris, panting as he came out into the street and saw four shadowy figures standing there in the night. ‘Well met, my friends! Put down your swords — the thieves have fled!’
‘You misjudge us,’ said one, moving into the dragon-fire light of Yilda’s blazing mop and revealing himself as none other than Pelagius Zozimus, Justina’s master chef. ‘You misjudge us, for we are thieves ourselves.’
Yilda, still geared up for battle, slashed at him with her flaming mop. Zozimus ducked. His comrade Guest Gulkan swung cold steel adroitly and lopped off the head of the mop.
‘You’ve come to the wrong place,’ said Uckermark, hefting a dragon cleaver in his hand. ‘We’ve no money here. We’re not a bank or a brothel.’
‘No,’ said Pelagius Zozimus. ‘You’re the corpse master Uckermark. Within you have the wishstone which is what we’re here for.’
‘You’re wrong on all counts,’ said Uckermark. ‘I’m not Uckermark. I am but his slave. The man himself is within with seven comrades at cards. Master! Thieves without!’ Uckermark’s bawling voice echoed down the street. From inside the shop came an answer:
‘Coming! Coming!’
It was Chegory Guy, pitching his voice low the better to imitate full-grown manhood. But Zozimus and his three companions were not impressed.
‘I know you by your face,’ said Zozimus. ‘I learnt your name when you brawled at Justina’s Petitions Session. Better still, I know you’ve no fighting force within. We’ve had your place watched all day. The stone! Now! Or I’ll cut your guts open looking for it!’
Out from the interior of the shop there then came Chegory Guy with a wicked corpse hook in hand.
‘Uckermark’s just coming,’ he said in a voice quite different from the one he had used for his bluff of a f
ew moments previously.
‘You’re beginning to bore me,’ said Zozimus. ‘I’m warning you! If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s being bored.’
Uckermark grunted and muscled forward. But Log Jaris threw out a hand and restrained him.
‘If we have got the wishstone,’ said Log Jaris, ‘then give it to them.’
‘What is this?’ said Uckermark in outrage. ‘There’s four of us! We can take them!’
Certainly the odds in a fight would have been fairly even. Guest Gulkan of Tameran was a formidable warrior — but then so was the bullman Log Jaris. Uckermark could probably have killed the cut-throat Thayer Levant even though that unscrupulous unworthy was far more dangerous than his appearance suggested. As for the two wizards, Pelagius Zozimus and Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin, why, neither of them was much of a fighter and both for the moment were right out of magic. Chegory and Yilda could probably have cleaned them up.
‘We’re not going to take them,’ said Log Jaris, ‘because the wishstone’s too dangerous to hold. Justina has sworn-’ ‘Okay, okay,’ said Uckermark in disgust. ‘I get the picture! All right, gentlemen. Wait here just a moment. My darling wife is your hostage to vouchsafe for my return.’ Uckermark disappeared into his corpse shop and was back almost immediately with a bag of offal. He flung it into the street. It burst. Bloody organs in various states of decay and disrepair went sprawling across the street. The wishstone rolled free. It was so layered in black blood that its light scarcely showed. Nevertheless, a leam of rainbow revealed it for what it was. Thayer Levant snatched it up and Guest Gulkan’s faction began to back away down the street.
‘You’ll never get away with it!’ yelled Uckermark. ‘You’ll never get off Untunchilamon alive!’
‘Get back inside!’ said Pelagius Zozimus. ‘Back! Or I’ll blast you all with wizardry!’
He was bluffing, and Uckermark guessed as much. Nevertheless, the corpse master was glad to have a face-saving excuse to bring the whole nerve-shattering episode to an end.
