by Hugh Cook
‘What news from within?’ said Chegory.
But the beggars ignored him. So, without even wasting so much as curse on their unco-operative heads, he went on into the interior. Which was silent. Deserted. But for Slanic Moldova, whom Chegory found still painting his mural.
‘Sian,’ said Chegory. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Not bad,’ said Moldova. ‘Not bad at all. Do you want some pork?’
‘No thank you, Sian,’ said Chegory, in the voice he reserved for humouring lunatics. ‘But it’s very kind of you to offer.’
‘There is some, you know,’ said Moldova, and pointed at some dirty dishes which Chegory had not noticed.
‘Food!’ said Chegory with surprise, seeing that much of a meal remained on the plates. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘The kitchen, of course. I cooked it myself. Do you want some?’
‘Ah, um, no thanks, Sian. I’ve got to be going.’
‘Fare thee well, then,’ said Moldova. Then: ‘Oh, I say — if you’re going down there, do be careful. They tell me there’s a demon somewhere down there.’
‘Thanks, Sian,’ said Chegory.
Then on he went.
Feeling very much alone.
As Chegory drew near the Star Chamber he paused. He could feel his heart quop fast and hard within his breast. Blood hissed in his ears. He felt dizzy. What was that he could smelP Rotting food. What a stink! Disregarding the smell, he crept forward till he could see into the Star Chamber. Within, the carpet of chowder and kedgeree had decayed badly in the heat. It was aswarm with flies and the air was possessed by the busy underhum of the death-delighting insects.
And there — yes, there was the demon-possessed Aquitaine Varachavardan. The albino’s lean body sprawled in rotting food. Bowls of food fresh and unrotted lay all around it. The thing which had possessed that flesh was methodically gorging itself. The demon had gathered that food is energy, and knew full well that energy is power. So to maximise its power it was trying to metabolise as much food as possible, and to that end was cramming its maw with one morsel after another. From this it will be clear that the demon, even though it had ransacked the brain of the conjuror Odolo for data about its new environment, still did not possess a firm understanding of the human organism.
Chegory wavered.
He was tempted to run.
Then he saw Olivia among the people cowering at the demon’s feet. If she saw him she gave no sign of it. Her face was blank. All personality washed out of it by unendurable terror. Was she permanently damaged? He could not tell. He searched for Ingalawa. Found her. Ingalawa’s eyes met his. The Ashdan female mouthed something — but whatever it was Chegory failed to understand.
What about the Empress.
Where was Justina?
There — in a corner, sleeping.
Chegory cleared his throat.
The demon looked at him.
‘What do you want?’ said Binchinminfin.
It was Varazchavardan’s throat through which the demon spoke. But the accents were still those of the conjuror Odolo whom Chegory had left that day on the island of Jod. These were the first accents which Binchinminfin had mastered — and doubtless the demon would continue to speak with Odolo’s voice unless it had very good reason to learn another form of speech.
‘I’ve — um, I’ve got something for you,’ said Chegory, advancing with the forged parchment tentatively extended.
‘What is it?’ said the demon.
‘A… a medical certificate.’
‘Explain,’ said Binchinminfin.
‘Well, you’ve, uh, I mean — that’s Varazchavardan’s body you’ve got there, okay? And the sorcerer, well, he gets sick like everyone else. This is from his doctor. It’s a note. It says he needs this medicine.’ Chegory looked at all the food on which the demon had been feeding. He made a few deductions then said: ‘Uh, if you don’t mind me saying so, maybe you feel a bit sick already. This, this medicine, it’s, well, great stuff.’
‘I do feel a bit… what’s the word? Poorly! That’s it! Yes, I feel poorly.’
‘Well, you see, that’s because you haven’t been having this medicine,’ said Chegory.
While he spoke, he looked around. If he got a little closer then surely he could knife the demon. He had come armed for the purpose. But — oh! There was a guard in a corner. A guard with a crossbow trained on Chegory’s heart. The demon had already taken care of basic security. Such is the depravity of the human race that even a demon, a foul Thing from Beyond, will find servants more than willing to pledge their loyalty to its service.
‘Tell me about this medicine,’ said Binchinminfin.
‘It’s, uh, some stuff called alcohol,’ said Chegory. ‘It comes in various forms. There’s, uh, mead. And vodka, of course. Brandy. Rum — that’s pretty good stuff. But they’re all versions of the same thing, you know, it’s just that some are stronger than others. They’re all — well, this medicine is so good you can use it to treat just about anything. Flat feet, indigestion, you name it. I’m not kidding.’
‘We’ll see,’ said the demon ominously.
Then closed its eyes.
Its face went slack.
Chegory realised the demon must be searching Varazchavardan’s mind for data. Just as it had earlier searched Odolo’s. His heart hammered all the faster. Should he run? One look at the guard told him the answer: no! Instant death would be the result.
Binchinminfin opened Varazchavardan’s pink eyes. With those eyes the demon eyed Chegory with suspicion. Then spoke.
‘It comes to me that this organism can overdose on this medicine.’
‘Um, yes,’ said Chegory. ‘Well, side effects, there’s those, you can’t get round that, when you’ve got medicine you’ve got side effects. I mean, take opium for instance, it’s good stuff, but, uh, you can get hideously addicted if you have it too often. Now this alcohol stuff, well, you can run into problems with that. So it’s best you have a foodtaster. Okay? Someone to check it out. That’s me. I’ll match you drink for drink. That way you can watch me. If it’s not doing me any harm then you’ll know it’s not doing you any harm either. Okay?’
‘That’s logical,’ said the demon. ‘Where can I get this medicine?’
‘You call in a waiter,’ said Chegory. ‘Or have they all run away?’
The demon looked at the guard who had the crossbow.
‘We still have the waiters, sir,’ said the guard.
‘Good,’ said Binchinminfin. ‘Then get me some.’
‘Get him some waiters,’ said the guard, raising his voice.
‘Will do,’ came the acknowledgement from above.
Grief! There were more armed guards on the mezzanine! Ten of them at least. The simple, elegant plan which Log Jaris had formulated — get the demon drunk then kill it — had become much more complicated. Somehow the guards would have to be won over. Or got rid of. Maybe the demon could be conned into turning them into frogs. Or something. Maybe the guards could be persuaded to get drunk as well. But could Chegory outdrink the better part of a dozen soldiers? Judging by some of the ugly rumours he’d heard about Injiltaprajura’s garrison, it might be decidedly unwise to try.
Shortly half a dozen waiters were marched into the Star Chamber. To Chegory’s disappointment they were still as poised and as supercilious as ever. A little waiterly terror would have gone down well with the Ebrell Islander just then.
‘Alcohol,’ said Binchinminfin. ‘We want alcohol.’
‘Yes sir,’ said one of the waiters, a smooth young fellow with a wart on his nose. ‘And may I ask what kind, sir?’
‘Alcohol alcohol!’ said Binchinminfin impatiently. ‘Bring it! Alcohol! For me and my friend.’
‘Your friend, sir?’
‘This!’ said Binchinminfin, pointing at Chegory. ‘My friend. Understand?’ ‘Certainly, sir,’ said the waiter.
A thousand shades of meaning were in those words. None of them was complimentary.
Then Chegory said, in his most casual voice:
‘Have you by chance any firewater?’
‘Firewater, sir?’ said the waiter in his most supercilious voice.
The demon Binchinminfin heard his tone and reproved him sharply:
'You will attend to the wants of my young friend.’ ‘Indeed,’ said the waiter. ‘But I am not familiar with this — this firewater.’
‘Firewater from the Ebrells,’ said Chegory patiently, resisting the urge to knife the waiter on the spot. ‘Ebrell Island firewater, in other words.’ He gathered his thoughts and then, with a fluency which drew upon sublimated fear for its energy, he said: ‘It is a potion most soothing to the tongue, most excellent for the digestion.’
If you say so, sir,’ said the waiter, in tones of careful neutrality. ‘We will see what the imperial cellar can yield. Failing that, we will turn to the… to the resources of the city-’
Oh, it was so delicately said! So nicely put! Done with such an exemplary command of the outward forms of protocol] With such masterly politesse! But it clearly meant: we’re not used to putting up with the depraved tastes of you stinking Ebbies but we can cope if we have to.
While Chegory and his demonic companion waited for the firewater to be produced, Chegory had to field a few queries about other forms of alcohol.
‘What is beer?’ said Binchinminfin. ‘I have heard mention of beer. Another form of alcohol, is it not?’
‘A brew favoured by slaves and stevedores in foreign parts,’ said Chegory.
‘Wine, then?’ said Binchinminfin. ‘What is wine?’ ‘Rotten grapejuice,’ said Chegory. ‘Let’s not waste our time with wine. Firewater, that’s the stuff.’
In due course the wart-defaced waiter returned to the Star Chamber bearing a tray. On it were two jugs and two very small porcelain cups.
‘Firewater, sir,’ said the waiter, balancing the tray on one hand as he used the other to pour a little fluid into one of the cups. The malevolent liquid flowed from the jug in a rippling helix. A snake-voiced protest arose from the porcelain. The liquid burst into flames of dancing green. ‘Vinegar, sir,’ said the waiter, taking up the second jug.
It is alleged that there are occasions on which firewater has been drunk in its original, undiluted form. However, documentary evidence for such experiments is slight. If one were to seek more such evidence, doubtless the best place to look would be in a collection of obituaries.
The waiter poured, topping up the cup with a stream of vinegar which doused the green flames of the firewater, leaving a bubbling brown liquid in the cup. By preparing the drink in this manner the waiter showed that his familiarity with this potion was far greater than he had earlier pretended.
He offered the cup to Binchinminfin, who took it and held it cautiously. Something about the waiter’s manner had alerted the brute to the dangers of this drink, and none passed his lips while the waiter prepared a similar dose for the demon’s guest.
‘Get me something larger,’ said Chegory, spurning the eggshell of a cup. ‘I’m thirsty.’
The waiter yielded to temptation and — though this was most unprofessional — turned his eyes upward to the heavens. Then departed, returning shortly with a skull which had once belonged to Lonstantine Thrug, who had taken it from one of the many men he had killed in the course of his military career. Chegory splashed firewater into this silver-lined ornament, slopped in some vinegar then drank. Binchinminfin was encouraged by this display of enthusiasm. The demon tossed his own cup aside, grabbed the chamber pot which had previously served him as a crown, then held it out to be filled.
The waiter again turned his eyes toward heaven, then sighed, then poured both vinegar and firewater into the chamber pot.
The demon sipped.
‘It’s good,’ he said, in pleased surprise.
‘Oh,’ said Chegory vaguely, ‘Ebrell Islanders like it right enough. But that’s not universally thought of as a recommendation.’
‘No, no,’ said Binchinminfin generously. ‘You do yourself a wrong. This is great!’
The waiterage proved appallingly slow, so refills of firewater were hard to come by. Nevertheless, though it was late in the day when the two started drinking, by dusk the demon had consumed sufficient medicine to be feeling much, much better.
‘You’re right,’ said Binchinminfin. ‘This was just what I needed. But… why are my hands stumbling and yours not?’
‘I’ve drunk more than you have,’ said Chegory, telling this barefaced lie with all the aplomb he could muster. ‘The more you drink, the better you feel.’
‘Oh,’ said the demon, squinting at the candles which had just been lit to illuminate the fast-darkening Star Chamber. ‘And if — if I drink some more will it help my eyes?’
‘Your eyes?’ said Chegory.
‘I see two of everything. Sometimes three.’
‘Well,’ said Chegory, ‘I’m no oculist, but, as I’ve said, Injiltaprajura uses alcohol to treat just about anything.’
‘You mean,’ said the demon, ‘we should drink more?’ ‘But of course, of course!’ said Chegory. ‘If you’ve got enough firewater you can keep drinking all night.’
Which is true enough. It is a matter of recorded fact that Ebrell Islanders have been known to drink firewater steadily from one sunrise to the next. What young Chegory neglected to say was that one stands a good chance of dropping dead during (or shortly after) such a drinking bout.
Thus encouraged, Binchinminfin clapped his hands.
‘Waiter!’ cried the demon. ‘More firewater! Lots of it! Quickly, quickly!’
The waiter withdrew, returning in due course with a fresh crock of firewater and an ample supply of vinegar. Thus the demon and the Ebrell Islander drank on into the night.
What a debauched scene this is! The Ebrell Islander and the demon shamelessly polluting their bodies with the most lethal potation known to the human race! At Chegory’s feet is the delectable Olivia Qasaba, for she has crept close to him for comfort, hoping he has some plan for rescue. Well, he had a plan — to drink the demon into oblivion then knife it. But the presence of soldiers has thwarted that plan. Nevertheless, young Chegory drinks on regardless. The most shameful part of all is that he is starting to enjoy it.
Yes!
This Ebrell Islander, who is by now most definitely drunk, drinks with a will. He is loving it! Now we see how shallow were those moral protestations with which he previously preached against demon rum. Blood will out! Blood has outed! Here is an Ebrell Islander true, a drink-crazed thing wildly giving itself to excess and intoxication.
Yes, young Chegory is drinking with a wild abandon, and fondling the succulent Olivia as he does so. Worse, he is letting her sip from the skull which serves him as a cup. Thanks to an influx of firewater, the blank fear has slipped away from Olivia’s sweet and girlish face to be replaced by something… well, libidinous would not be too strong a word for it. While Chegory fondles her flesh she fondles him back in return. He is her hero who is — she is sure of it — here to rescue her.
To rescue her first from the demon Binchinminfin and then, doubtless, from her virginity.
Artemis Ingalawa is scandalised, yet dare not intervene. Instead, she watches from the shadows, hoping against hope that Chegory has a plan. As it happens, he doesn’t. But he’s not worried. He’s sure he’ll solve all in time. He’s possessed by a buoyant over-confidence for which firewater must bear the blame.
But sooner or later this drinking spree must end. Sooner or later consequences must be faced. Let us hope it will be sooner rather than later — or who knows what horrors might be enacted tonight in this palace of corruption and crime?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The orgy of drinking would have continued all night if Binchinminfin’s enjoyment had not been halted by the natural limits of the flesh. The demon ceased to feel better and began to feel worse. So drank all the more in the hope of encouraging a more favourable trend. Then vomited,
upchucking half-digested food to the rotting carpet of chowder and kedgeree.
The guards — at this stage there were several of them near at hand — watched with the technical detachment of vastly experienced experts as Binchinminfin grovelled on his hands and knees in the grotesque carpet of sludge. Vomiting repeatedly.
‘It’s a side effect, isn’t it?’ he said at last.
‘Yes,’ admitted Chegory. ‘One of the worse.’
For a while the demon said nothing. It was too sick to say anything. Then it said:
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’ said Chegory.
‘The side effects,’ said Binchinminfin. ‘Why me and not you? Why haven’t you thrown up?’
‘Because he’s an Ebby,’ said one of the guards, with contempt. ‘A stinking Ebby. We know his game! He’s been feeding you firewater to try to get you incapably drunk.’
‘You’re just jealous,’ said Chegory, with drunken racial pride. ‘You know you can’t match us Ebrell Islanders. We can outdrink outfight and-’
Well, I’m sure we all know what boast logically belongs to this sequence. Furthermore, you can be sure Chegory made it. Which increased the disapproval of the onlooking Ingalawa. She was committing every moment of this to memory. Sooner or later, Chegory would answer for his indiscretions!
‘Why would you want to get me drunk?’ said Binchinminfin, failing to realise that he was drunk already. ‘What good would it have done you?’
‘I would have cut your throat,’ said Chegory, shaking himself free of Olivia’s clutches as he lurched to his feet. ‘I would have raped your spleen with a gutting knife. I would have tom out your liver. I would have ripped out your lungs. Like this!’
So saying, Chegory staggered toward the demon. Then toppled and fell. Then got to his feet again. Binchinminfin obviously had to do something. But what? The logical, sensible thing was to incinerate young Chegory Guy. Or turn him into a toad. But, since the demon was drunk, he did something rash instead, and deserted the body of Varazchavardan for that of the Ebrell Islander, that splendid redskinned body which could outfight, outdrink and out-the-other every thing else in sight.
