by Hugh Cook
‘But,’ said Chegory, objecting, ‘what if, um, this Gulkan guy uses the wishstone to, well, to chop off our heads or something? He says it’s a power-thing, doesn’t he?’
‘Come now!’ said Pelagius Zozimus. ‘You don’t believe everything you’re told, do you?’
‘Your Gulkan man said the wishstone’s a power-thing,’ said Chegory stubbornly. ‘I want to know what it is. What it does.’
Zozimus sighed.
‘It’s a long story,’ said he, ‘and we’ve shortened the night too much already. If you must know, the wishstone is actually the x-x-zix of the Iltong Legends, of which you’ve never heard. It was made by the Dissidents, of whom you know nothing, to control the breathings of the Cold West, a place stranger than anything you could possibly imagine. Once we have the x-x-zix in the Cold West we can fight for control of Chi’ash-lan, a city you’ve never been to and never will. Success will give us the rule of a Door. Then we can strive for control of the Circle. That leaves you none the wiser — but still you’re as wise as you ever will be. We’ve got a deal. Let’s waste our time no longer. To the palace! To face this demon! To kill it where it stands!’
All this was said in the most ferocious quick-fire rattle imaginable, for even in fatigue the formidable Zozimus remained a brilliant wizard with little patience for the foolish or the ignorant. Chegory insisted that he still didn’t understand, and wanted to, and would. But he was overruled.
‘We’ve talked too much already,’ said Uckermark, pulling on his second-best pair of boots. ‘Friend Zozimus is right. Let’s be on our way. But first-’
‘First what?’ said Zozimus impatiently.
‘I had a botde I meant to trade to the wonderworkers, but they weren’t in the mood for trade. So…’
So the rebooted Uckermark gathered together a gim-crack collection of cups, bowls and tankards. Then, with utter contempt for the laws of Injiltaprajura, he cracked open his bottle of Dragonfire and poured a tot for everyone present (with the sole exception of Shabble).
‘A toast.’ said Uckermark.
This thing called a ‘toast’ is one of the rituals of these alcohol-abusing drug-takers. It is a very important ceremony which lies right at the heart of the drug-taking cult. Indeed, students of such aberrations believe that, for many addicts, such rituals are almost as important as the actual alchemical effect of these toxic substances.
‘A toast.’ said Uckermark. ‘To… to Justina Thrug!’
All raised their death-containers then drank. The mumbling-muttering Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin was so shaky in the hands that he spilt half his drink, but he managed to down the rest. Only Chegory Guy left his cup untouched.
‘You’re not drinking with us, boy,’ said Uckermark, in tones of sev ere disapproval.
‘I have an upset stomach,’ said Chegory lamely.
Actually, he was thinking of Olivia. She who was (at least in his imagination) so pure and spotless. He was ashamed of the number of times he had been tainted by alcohol in the recent past. Now he was decided. Hereafter he would keep himself pure for her, abjure the horror of drugs and remain staunchly teetotal.
‘Ah well,’ said Uckermark philosophically, ‘if you’re sick, you’re sick.’
Then he downed Chegory’s share of the Dragonfire.
‘Okay!’ said Uckermark. ‘Let’s be going! Shabble, you lead the way!’
But Shabble had closely followed all the negotiations and explanations which had taken place in the corpse shop. The imitator of suns wanted nothing to do with demon-killing, particularly as this Binchinminfin sounded easily dangerous enough to kill a poor defenceless Shabble.
So the childlike one again played dead.
‘Shabble!’ said Pokrov, giving the dead-dull sphere a kick. ‘Wake up! Or I’ll get a therapist! I will, you know!’
But Shabble woke not. So Chegory pocketed Shabble once more, and the heroes (now ten in number) set off for the palace, leaving Yilda in sole possession of the corpse shop. As none of the three factions entirely trusted the others, Uckermark brought the wishstone along lest one faction abandon the others in battle and race back to the corpse shop to seize it.
[The Originator errs. There were not ten. There were actually eleven of them. Guest Gulkan, Thayer Levant, Pelagius Zozimus, Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin, Al-ran Lars, Arnaut, Tolon, Chegory Guy, Uckermark, Logjaris and Ivan Pokrov. Twelve, if one counts the goblin Shabble. Prill, Pedant Minor.]
CHAPTER THIRTY
Closely did the manly dark embrace the heroes, holding them in its virile grip as they hastened toward the pink palace with an enthusiasm for battle which was made all the greater by the Dragonfire they had consumed. Booze had put fire in their bellies indeed. Even Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin advanced with a will, albeit at a muttering stagger.
Up Skindik Way they went, past the slaughterhouse, past Ganthorgruk and the Dromdanjerie, to Lak Street. As they passed the Cabal House of the wonderworkers they heard the party within still raging strong. On they went, past the ship-sized bone chunk known as Pearl, then past the houses of the great and the grand aglimmer with the blue-green light of moon paint.
The pink palace loomed ahead.
Dark as an untenanted skull.
Chegory began to lag behind, for, while the danger of internecine conflict seemed past, he was appalled by the swaggering overconfidence of his fellow heroes. Since the young Ebrell Islander was innocent of the consumption of any alcohol, he did not share this braggadocio. His head was clear, and he had had time to think.
He had thought indeed.
While the idea of killing Varazchavardan had been his to start with, was it really such a smart thing to do? So the man was possessed by the demon Binchinminfin. So what? Who cared if a demon ruled Untunchilamon? Doubtless the demon would go in for a certain amount of rape, pillage and torture, for tradition tells us that demonic creatures from the World Beyond are addicted to such activities.
But — seriously now — could a demon possibly be worse than Aldarch the Third? They have a bad reputation, these demons, but that reputation is mostly hearsay. If Binchinminfin ruled Untunchilamon, surely the island would be safe from the Mutilator of Yestron. Which was a major consideration now the Mutilator looked likely to win the civil war raging in the Izdimir Empire.
True, the wonderworkers claimed that Binchinminfin was the first of a storm of demons which would destroy the world. But were the wonderworkers necessarily to be believed?
In retrospect, Chegory thought the sorcerers in the Cabal House had all been enjoying themselves far too much. Perhaps the world was truly endangered. But he strongly suspected the wonderworkers were only using that as an excuse to get smashed on alchemical alcohol. That the world would still be there in ten days’ time, and the sorcerers knew as much.
By the time Chegory had thought all this, he was at the entrance to the pink palace. However, he had lagged so far behind that the others were out of sight.
‘Well,’ said Chegory, ‘that’s their problem, not mine.’
He wiped his face with his hands, smearing away the sweat which bubbled so freely from his skin, then sat down in the portico, leaned back against one of the dark pillars which he knew to be pink, and waited. After a while, Shabble crept from Chegory’s pocket, rose into the air to a height of seventy incas, and began to glow softly.
‘So you’re alive,’ said Chegory moodily.
Shabble assented happily, then began to sing a cheerful little song.
‘Turn down the light,’ said Chegory. ‘You’re a beacon for every moth in creation.’
But the demonic one brightened slightly and began dancing in the air, playing with the moths. Chegory thought of threatening his feckless friend with the therapist (whatever that was). The threat always worked. But he was too tired to bother. A kamikaze bug splattered itself against the therapist-fearing beacon, which promptly nuzzled up to Chegory to remove the wreckage. Chegory pushed Shabble away, and again wiped his hands over his face. He was still sweating. He�
��d never known it to be so hot!
At least there’s no mosquitoes.
So thought Chegory.
The next moment, of course, he heard a mosquito zining through the air beside his right ear. He swatted the mosquito. He missed. But stung his own ear nicely.
‘Shabble,’ said Chegory, ‘why don’t you make yourself useful? See where our dear friend Ivan Pokrov’s gone.’
‘We know where he’s gone,’ said Shabble. ‘He’s gone to kill the demon Binchinminfin.’
‘Well, why don’t you go in after him?’ said Chegory. ‘You’re not afraid of a little old demon, are you?’
‘Not sure,’ said Shabble guardedly.
Actually, though Shabble sometimes had fun pretending to be a demon, the cautious survivor of many millennia wasn’t really sure what a demon was. Furthermore, Shabble was in no hurry to find out the hard way.
Chegory waited some more.
Then he heard footsteps approaching at the totter. Cautiously, he got to his feet. He stared into the interior darkness of the palace. Ivan Pokrov emerged from that darkness and stood before Chegory. Swaying.
‘Are you all right?’ said Chegory.
‘I’m alive,’ said Pokrov.
Then fainted.
Chegory caught the analytical engineer as he crumpled. Dragged him away from the portal of the pink palace. Laid him down on the night-warm stone of the portico. Pokrov was breathing okay, and the pulse in his thin wrist was strong and slow. He’d live. Chegory then felt his own pulse, which was fleeting in panic.
Tou’re scared!
He was scared indeed. Fear had abolished fatigue, and he was ready to run. But he could not. Olivia was still in the palace. He returned to the portal, clenched his fists and tried to nerve himself to venture within.
I should have gone in with the others!
Chegory had no time for further self-recriminations, for something large, green and glowing was advancing from out of the depths of the palace. He ducked behind a pillar. As the green-glowing thing drifted past, Chegory saw it was a capsule of light. Inside was the young man of the Malud, Arnaut of Asral.
‘Hey!’ shouted Chegory. ‘Hey, what the hell’s going on?’
Arnaut struggled frantically within his cocoon of light. He punched, kicked and clawed. But he could not break free. The capsule of green light floated away down Lak Street bearing the hapless pirate with it.
Chegory stared after the receding cocoon of light.
‘Shit,’ said he.
In the Ebrell Islands, this passes as eloquence.
Having indulged himself in this delightful little soliloquy, Chegory turned back to the palace and waited for further revelation. None came. What was most ominous of all was that he could hear not a single sound from the interior. Not a shout, not a cry. Not so much as a squeak.
He could hear his own heartbeat, though. Also: a mosquito. Which settled. On his cheek. Swiftly, he smeared it. Felt its fragility roll beneath his fingers as he crushed it. Knew this was the moment of decision. Run. Immediately! Or venture inwards. He closed his eyes. Thought:
Olivia Olivia Olivia.
He opened his eyes. Wiped sweat from his face yet again. Took a deep breath. Then — moving swiftly, lest cowardice betray him — ran straight into the darkness of the palace.
He had scarcely gone a dozen paces when something tripped him and he fell heavily. Even as he recovered himself, Shabble came tumbling through the air after him, lighting the surrounding scene. Chegory had stumbled over a corpse. The body of old man Al-ran Lars! Covered in blood, alive with blood, streaming with blood, blood, red blood of death and butchery.
‘Get the hell off me,’ said the blood-smeared corpse.
Chegory gave a strangled scream as he leapt away from the dead man.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ said Al-ran Lars.
‘You’re — you’re dead,’ said Chegory.
‘The hell I am!’ said the elderly gentleman adventurer.
Then fainted.
‘He’s not dead, stupid,’ said Shabble.
‘So I gather,’ said Chegory stiffly.
He bent over the Ashdan-skinned pirate, checking the old man for wounds. There was but one: a scalp-gash. From this the ancient had lost perhaps a handful of blood, enough to give him the appearance of something from a horror-house, but not sufficient to endanger his life. As blood was still free-flowing from the wound, Chegory ripped away Al-ran Lars’s shirt then used it to bind the gash tightly.
‘Hey, old man!’ he said, shaking his patient roughly. ‘You’re all right! Wake up!’
But if the pirate heard him, he gave no sign of it.
Chegory said something unkind, then got to his feet.
By now, this scion of a bloodstained race of whale killers had entirely forgotten his earlier reservations about murdering the demon Binchinminfin. The sight of blood had been sufficient to rouse the lust for slaughter within his savage breast.
‘Weapons!’ he said. ‘I need a weapon! Shabble, find me one!’
Shabble rose higher in the air, brightening all the while, illuminating more and more of the palace.
‘Nineteen paces forward then five to your left,’ said Shabble.
‘I see it,’ said Chegory.
He strode forward to claim the scimitar at the location indicated. It was heavy, and he held it awkwardly. Despite the clamancy of the moment he felt more than a little self-conscious to find himself in possession of such a theatrical weapon.
‘Well,’ said Chegory, squaring his shoulders. ‘Let’s get going.’
Going he got, with Shabble close behind him.
Tm scared,’ said Shabble.
‘You don’t have to come,’ said Chegory.
‘But if I stayed behind I’d be lonely!’ protested Shabble.
‘What does that matter?’ said Chegory.
‘You don’t understand! Loneliness is the worst thing! How would you like it, to live for thousands and thousands of years with-’
Thus began Shabble’s explanation of Shabbleself’s own emotional motivation, which was a long one. But Chegory hardly listened, for he was gearing up for combat. He was:
Here!
Now!
Focused! Centred! Ready!
Through the danger-dark stalked this warlike Ebrell Islander, murder his intent. Then he saw a baleful green fire glowing up ahead. ‘Shabble!’ said Chegory. Shabble prompdy lowered Shabbleself’s illumination to next to zero, and, thus dimmed, hovered at Chegory’s shoulder as the murderous one advanced to deal with demon Binchinminfin.
The green-glowing room ahead was none other than the Star Chamber, and when Chegory Guy peered inside it a truly piquant scene met his eyes.
Aquitaine Varazchavardan had indeed been possessed by the foul and hideous Thing from Beyond, the demon Binchinminfin. Possession was obvious at a glance. Varazchavardan’s lean and bony body had not been altered in the smallest particular — yet it had changed entirely.
All sense of overbearing dignity and ruthless self-control had deserted the wonderworker’s ice-white flesh. The demon-possessed body lolled, relaxed in a sybaritic ease impossible for anyone to associate with the tense and hard-driving Master of Law. Yes, Varazchavardan had most definitely lost control of his own corpus. The demon Binchinminfin had unopposed command of the wonderworker’s flesh and bones.
The perfidious monster had crowned itself with the most ornate object to hand, which happened to be a chamber pot which hailed from Wen Endex. There all artistic activity is frowned upon, and the ruling Yudonic Knights condemn would-be artists to exhaust their talents on the creation of such base objects as chamber pots and spittoons.
Hence the genius extant in this chamber pot, which featured [A catalogue follows. It has been excised on the grounds of obscenity; it raises questions concerning both the genius of the chamber pot and the morals of the Originator. Soo Tree, Redactor Subminor.]
To complete his glory, Binchinminfin had garbed Varazchavardan
’s flesh in a kitchen maid’s kirtle and a glittering silver cuirass. Thus attired, the demon was reclining on a silken cushion, his naked feet resting in the congealed mass of curry, kedgeree and chowder which carpeted the Star Chamber. He was dining upon a dish of highly spiced spitchcock while he sofdy fondled Justina’s albinotic ape, which was feeding from the same dish.
Chegory crouched in the entrance to the Star Chamber.
Watching.
He knew a demon to be in command of this body, because Varazchavardan had never been able to endure the presence of Justina’s ape. Then there was the matter of the body’s eccentric attire. So this was what a demon looked like! Binchinminfin reminded Chegory of a drunken vampire rat — for here was a body disporting itself without regard for anything but its own comfort. Flesh relaxed, face softened by pleasure undiluted. A delving hand fumbling in the spitchcock under the governance of greed unrestrained. A mouth which, caring for nothing but appetite, gobbed and slathered at the hand-delivered.
At the demon’s feet were slaves kneeling in the postures of worship, careless of the clogged mass of foot-mucked food in which they grovelled.
So what had happened to Uckermark? To Logjaris? To… oh! There they were! All the missing heroes were hanging in mid-air on the far side of the Star Chamber.
Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin’s eyes were closed, and the decrepit old wizard’s head lay to one side, so he was possibly dead. But the others were clearly alive and intact — indeed, they still possessed weapons brought with them from the corpse shop or picked up along the way. But they were obviously trapped, held by invisible forces of unknown strength.
Chegory met the eyes of the muscleman Tolon. The night-black foreigner from Asral mouthed something at him. What? Chegory, unable to lip-read, shook his head. Tolon glared at him. The muscleman was armed with a massive spear made entirely of iron, a ceremonial weapon far too weighty for most mortals to put to practical use. His expression suggested that if he got the chance he would use it on Chegory.
This was all most unfair!
What was Chegory supposed to do?
