The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers coaaod-6

by Hugh Cook

  ‘Anitha! Bin go ska-’

  Then a soldier kicked him in the crutch. He doubled over and (for the moment) said no more. In the air above him, a half-formed horror monster with three mouths and half a dozen arms wavered, made tentative groping movements toward Varazchavardan, then disintegrated and disappeared.

  ‘Right!’ said Varazchavardan. ‘That settles it! We’ll kill the lot of them! Right now!’

  Thus spake Varazchavardan. Whereupon the Empress Justina wrested herself from the grip of her guards in one convulsive convulsion and tried to claw out the sorcerer’s eyes. Her savaging fingernails raked his countenance. Then her guards secured her again. Varazchavardan stood. A drop of blood welled from a claw-track. Fell to the pink tiles. Red upon pink.

  Ah, beautiful, beautiful! It is strange, is it not? This Varazchavardan was but a banal power-player wargaming for dominance, yet his blood was as red as the juice of a ruby, potently suggestive of that very special wound which obsesses our imagination. But his blood’s outflow was wasted in the Star Chamber, for none had eyes for this beauty, or time for the thoughts of seduction and lost virginity which it should have stirred. Instead, their minds were given to anger.

  ‘Chop their heads off,’ said Varazchavardan.

  ‘Chop off whose heads?’ said a guard.

  ‘All of them!’ said Varazchavardan, with a wave of his hand which doomed all the prisoners to instant death. ‘The Ebby. The Ashdans. The mad daughter of the madman Thrug.’

  ‘You mean… you mean the Empress?’

  ‘By Sqilth and Zigletz!’ said Varazchavardan. ‘Didn’t I just say as much but a moment ago? Who do you think I mean? The Green Octopus of Outer Branpapia?’

  Silence.

  Silence from the Empress, too enraged to speak.

  Silence from Olivia, too shocked to speak.

  Silence from Uckermark — a fatalist at heart.

  Silence also from Chegory Guy, who was now (he was an Ebrell Islander, remember!) waiting for any momentary chance in which he might get the opportunity to kill V arazchavardan.

  Then Odolo piped up, and this is what the conjuror said: ‘If you please, I’ve… I’ve no strong political beliefs of my own. There’s no need to kill me, for I’ll happily serve the victor.’

  ‘Silence!’ said Varazchavardan. Then: ‘Kill them!’

  But still his guards made no move to lop off heads. After five years of the benevolent rule of Justina, they were quite out of the habit of executing people. Besides, they were all in their best dress uniforms, which had been bought at their own expense, were hideously expensive, and would get mined entirely if they obeyed Varazchavardan then and there. After all, it takes but a cup of blood to besplatter a man from head to toe, and those of you who have seen a judicial decapitation will agree that the spillage from such is far greater and that the chances of the executioner avoiding the outspurt are negligible.

  Thus, while the guards had no special regard for the Empress, they were far from keen about the idea of instant executions. At the very least they wanted the chance to put on some old clothes before they started chopping heads.

  ‘Sir,’ said Bro Drumel, understanding his men’s hesitation, ‘sir, if you please, sir, execution would best be done later, sir, in accordance with the proper forms, sir. Sir, shall I have the prisoners taken away, sir?’

  Another drop of blood dripped from Varazchavardan’s tom cheek and fell to the pink, pink tiles of the Star Chamber.

  ‘You can have them taken away,’ said Varazchavardan grimly, ‘when they’re all dead.’

  So saying, he seized a scimitar from one of his guards. He stalked toward Odolo, intent on murder. He would save Justina to the last. She could have the pleasure of watching all her underlings get slaughtered before she herself fell beneath the blade. As Varazchavardan advanced upon Odolo, the cowardly conjuror made no move to defend himself, but instead grovelled at the sorcerer’s feet.

  ‘Sit up!’ said Varazchavardan, who wanted a clear target to swing at.

  Odolo reluctantly sat on his thighs.

  ‘Raise your head,’ said Varazchavardan. ‘Come on! Chin up!’

  Odolo complied.

  Reluctantly.

  Varazchavardan grimaced. He did not really want to do this. Like the guards, he disliked the idea of getting blood all over his clothes. If he were to behead the conjuror there would be no way to avoid such a besmirchment. Furthermore, he was wearing his favourite robes. Besides: what if Odolo flinched? Then the blade might well hack out a piece of his skull and leave him alive and screaming. Unless an expert is in charge, execution by decapitation can take a long time and be very, very messy. Still, politics is politics, so Varazchavardan had no choice.

  He drew back the scimitar.

  He struck.

  He put all his strength into the blow.

  The scimitar swept toward the conjuror’s neck.

  Then burst into splinters.

  Olivia screamed. Justina screamed. Ingalawa (to her shame!) screamed also. Uckermark stared in disbelief. Dolglin Chin Xter fainted. Then Chegory Guy made his move. The husky young Ebrell Islander tried to burst free- but his guards restrained him.

  ‘Sir!’ said Bro Drumel urgently. ‘Are you hurt?’

  Varazchavardan, who had clapped a hand to his cheek, brought it away bloody. He had a fresh wound in addition to the claw-marks where Justina had scored him. A piece of shrapnel had pierced his flesh. The splinter of steel was half-projecting from his wound.

  ‘Odolo!’ said Varazchavardan.

  He turned his bloody eyes on the conjuror. He raised his hands. He cried:

  ‘Jenjobo! Jenjobo! Dandoon! Dandoon!’

  Smoke wreathed from Varazchavardan’s fingertips and surged toward the conjuror. The smoke formed, turned into a fifty-fingered monster, a monster dire, a monster huge, a thing of volcanic height and night-bat shadows, a thing which screamed with a lunatic voice which was half whip-crack hate and half insanity. The monster closed with the conjuror. With a death-scream, it struck at Odolo Then, on an instant, dissolved.

  One moment it was there. A moment later, it had collapsed.

  The collapsed remnants of the monster spilt to the floor and flowed away in all directions, steaming slightly. The monster had been converted to a flood of chowder and kedgeree.

  ‘Nadinkos!’ said Varazchavardan, now ankle-deep in this food-flood. Then he swore again. Then raised his hands again. In a voice of outraged fury he shouted: ‘Wenfardigo! Wenfardigo! Doktoris! Doktoris! Ko!’

  On an instant a nightmarish beast formed itself from the very air. It was a creature of horror, a screaming fiend with scrabbling claws and teeth demonic. It breathed out smoke, then sulphur, then screamed again — and then attacked. But before it could open so much as a needle-point pin-prick in Odolo’s hide, it collapsed into a slather of very hot curry, adding heat and pungency to the slovenly carpet of chowder and kedgeree which had already polluted the Star Chamber.

  ‘That does it!’ said Varazchavardan.

  Once more he raised his hands. He took a deep breath. Then he cried out again in a high, twisted language. There was a crash of thunder. A blinding flash of light. Then a hideous scream of tearing stone and rending metal.

  Most people who could — fled.

  Bro Drumel fled.

  Chegory Guy’s guards fled.

  But Chegory himself stood his ground.

  Those who (like Chegory) were fool enough to linger were privileged to see Varazchavardan and Odolo grappling with each. Both had Changed. To things of stone and steel. To things inhuman which tore each other with energies unearthly.

  For half a heartbeat, Chegory Guy watched these two monster-made Powers battling with each other. Then, ruled by the dictates of sanity, Chegory fled. He burst out of the Star Chamber and ran mindlessly until he collided with someone. The collision sent him sliding to the floor.

  ‘You,’ said tones far from unfamiliar, ‘have been walking in your food.’

&nbs
p; Panting, Chegory looked up. The speaker was none other than Slanic Moldova. Having said his piece, the lunatic returned to his mural.

  ‘Sian,’ said Chegory, ‘get out of here. There’s wonderworkers at war in the Star Chamber. Sian. Do you hear me? Sian!’

  But Moldova ignored him.

  So Chegory picked himself up, scraped the curry, kedgeree and chowder from his feet. Then started to think. Where was Olivia? Where Ingalawa?

  He dared a shout:

  ‘Olivia!’

  Someone came running from the direction of the Star Chamber. A soldier with a torn ear.

  ‘Stop!’ said Chegory. ‘What’s happening back there?’

  But the soldier ran past without stopping. After him came the corpse master Uckermark.

  ‘Come on,’ said Uckermark, grabbing ChegOry by the arm. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’

  ‘No!’ said Chegory. ‘I have to get Olivia!’

  He pulled away from the corpse master then began to jog back toward the Star Chamber. Uckermark hesitated momentarily, said something decidedly obscene, then followed at a leisurely pace. It was far too hot to run any more. Besides, if young Chegory Guy truly wished to die, why should a law-abiding corpse master be in any hurry to join him in death?

  Before the fast-hastening Chegory Guy reached the Star Chamber he heard the hideous sounds of combat still proceeding within. He gained the portals of the Star Chamber. He halted. Odolo and Varazchavardan, still guised in the very shapes of hell, were locked in mortal combat. Granching and dranching they raged, clubbed each other with synthetic gravity and clawed with sharpened light.

  Harsh actinic illumination outglared from their carapaces. A matching radiance burnt from the very walls of the Star Chamber itself. No shadow could survive in that room. The dazing light was thrice brighter than the noonday sun. Chegory, near-blinded by the glare, could not tell whether any of the huddled forms at the feet of the fighters might be Olivia.

  ‘Olivia!’ he cried.

  Then he tried to shout again — but his voice cracked, broke, failed. He swallowed. Then screamed:

  ‘Odolo! Varaza — Varazchavardan! Stop it! Stop!’

  The two combatants broke away from each other as if they had heard him and had chosen to obey. Then, still guised in the shapes of nightmare, they growled with hideous voices which made the very floor vibrate. Then they charged each other. They flailed wildly as they clashed once more. Lighting crackled around their metal-insect hulls as they slashed and hammered at each other. They grappled. Had each other in a death-grip. They were changing even as Chegory watched, sprouting claws ornate and pincers savage, growthing clutching tentacles and head-cropping mandibles. From one came an intolerable screaming.

  Then Both fighting forms collapsed into chaos.

  One moment they were there. The next, gone. Dissolved to a thrashing cloud of murk and motion. Which, even as Chegory watched, reformed. The cloud of obscurity resolved itself into two human forms, radiant still with actinic light, still in a death-grip locked.

  There was the flesh of Varazchavardan, and there Odolo. Who was dying, surely. For Varazchavardan had the conjuror’s neck in a grip of iron. Literally. For one of Varazchavardan’s arms had not reverted to flesh, but was metal still. That metal arm was forcing Odolo’s neck around. Soon the neck must break.

  Now was Chegory’s chance.

  If one of those plague-silent bodies was Olivia’s, then he must get her out and away now, now, now! Before the battle ended and Varazchavardan was free to turn his wrath on other targets.

  He ran forward.

  The light flared to a blinding brightness.

  ‘No!’ screamed Chegory.

  He slipped. He slid. He fell. He sent sprawling in the undelights of kedgeree and curry. Splot! He opened his eyes, but found himself blind. Then rage possessed him. He swore as only an Ebrell Islander can. He leapt to his feet, meaning to do battle with anything he in his blindness could find. But his feet went out from under him, for the floor was slippery as a five-lust aftermath. Down he went, and thump went his head on the floor.

  Half-dazed, Chegory lay there.

  Was his back broken?

  No.

  Could he get up?

  Yes.

  Could he see?

  Well… a little.

  Yes, his sight was returning. Meanwhile, his hearing was as sharp as ever. He could hear a single human floundering around in the slurry. Who? Chegory strove to see. Amidst a wash of purple light and strobing suns he made out the features of Odolo. Yes, it was the conjuror Odolo who was crawling through the food.

  So where was Varazchavardan?

  ‘Chegory!’ said Uckermark, entering the Star Chamber.

  ‘Watch out!’ cried Chegory. ‘Varazchavardan!’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Odolo, his voice slurring and blurring. ‘Where is Varazchavardan?’

  He had to ask because his eyes were nearly closed by bruises. He had been battered as badly as a haplass elitamoripadroti used for a game of kathandamatandatu.

  ‘Here,’ said Uckermark, striding forward and dealing out a hearty kick to the recumbent body of the Master of Law.

  Varazchavardan lay supine and senseless in a sea of kedgeree which was almost (but not quite) deep enough to drown him. But though Varazchavardan was unconscious, his monstrous metal-formed arm, souvenir of his battle of transformations with Odolo, had a life of its own. The finger-equivalents opened and closed. Opened and closed. Opened and closed. Click click click!

  ‘You must kill,’ said Odolo. ‘Kill him.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ said Uckermark, scooping a discarded scimitar from the goop on the floor.

  This was Chegory’s moment. This was Chegory’s chance. If he had seized it, he could have found Olivia and could have husded her out of the Star Chamber before anything else went wrong. But he failed to take advantage of the brief-lived chance — because he was too busy watching with fascination as Uckermark advanced upon Varazchavardan.

  ‘Hold!’ cried an intruder.

  Uckermark held. Turned. Faced the intruder. Who was none other than Nixorjapretzel Rat. Where had he sprung from? The answer is simple. Rat had watched most of the proceedings from the mezzanine. Now he was intervening to save his master Varazchavardan from certain death.

  ‘Get crnt of here,’ said Uckermark, raising the scimitar with murder his intent.

  Rat raised his hands. He did that bit perfectly. For a moment he looked every bit the wonderworker. Uckermark hesitated, watching Rat with a degree of wary suspicion.

  ‘Phidamas!’ cried Rat. ‘Phidamas! Strobo, um… stro-boko! Stroboko!’

  Nothing happened.

  So Uckermark turned back to Varazchavardan, murder once more his intent. Down came the scimitar. Straight into Varazchavardan’s skull. There was a clang of metal against metal. Uckermark dropped the scimitar. He clutched his swordhand.

  ‘This sorcerer’s skull is of metal!’ said Uckermark.

  True. Varazchavardan’s skull had failed to revert to its original bone after the battle of transformations. Worse, Varazchavardan’s arm of monster-metal, which had also failed to revert, was starting to look for something to crunch and kill.

  ‘Look out!’ screamed Chegory.

  Uckermark leapt aside. Just in time. The finger equivalents of the monster-arm closed on empty air and crushed it to nothing. Meanwhile, Rat was still trying to kill Chegory, Uckermark and Odolo by exercise of magic.

  ‘Phildamas!’ cried Rat. ‘Phildamas stroldoko! Man-credos! Mancredos! Fa!’

  At his command, a whirlwind of shadow and flame roared into life. Roaring still, it began to spin toward Varazchavardan’s enemies. They, realising they had underestimated young Rat, took to their heels and fled for their lives.

  From the pink palace they escaped: Uckermark, Odolo and Chegory Guy in consort. They did not linger but fled down Lak Street in blatant defiance of the sweltering heat of the day. When they reached the Cabal House of the sorcerers
of Untunchilamon, they turned down Skindik Way, disturbing some crows which were holding a business conference, haggling for shares in the belly of a dead dog.

  Past the Dromdanjerie they went, then past Ganthorgruk. Then, when they reached the city’s slaughterhouse, they stopped. Hot, panting, and exhausted.

  ‘Gods!’ said Chegory.

  Then said no more, but leaned against a wall and panted some more. He could smell himself. He stank of sweat, curry, chowder and kedgeree. His silken canary robes were near enough to ruined. Gods! What if he was made to pay for new ones? Where would he find the money?

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Odolo.

  ‘What don’t you believe?’ said Uckermark.

  ‘What happened!’ said Odolo.

  The conjuror wiped a hand across his glistening brow. He shook the hand. Drops of sweat flashed through the air. They made momentary pattern of dampness on the hot bloodstone of the street. But the pattern dried to nothing in instants.

  Chegory’s breathing began to settle. The sun shone. A drunken vampire rat staggered from a speakeasy opposite the slaughterhouse, its night-adapted eyes closed against the sun. Chegory watched it for a few moments, then looked back up Skindik Way. Which was quiet, empty and uninteresting, but for the dog-consuming crows.

  ‘Come on,’ said Uckermark.

  ‘Where are we going?’ said Chegory.

  ‘Where do you think?’ said Uckermark.

  But Chegory Guy did not think. He only guessed. Where could they go? At a guess, Downstairs. No other destination occurred to him.

  ‘We can’t go there!’ he said, in tones of horror.

  ‘We can,’ said Uckermark. ‘We must. We will.’

  On he went, with Chegory following after him. At last — to his relief — Chegory realised they were not making for Downstairs. No. Their destination was quite otherwise.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  All this time the Malud marauders and Guest Gulkan’s faction had been penned up Downstairs by Shabble, who had not had so much fun for ages. It was delicous! So many people to play with! There were the two wizards, Pelagius Zozimus and Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin. There was the barbarian Guest Gulkan and the shifty-eyed Thayer Levant. Oh, and the three pirates from Asral: Al-ran Lars, Arnaut and Tolon.