Hugh Cook - The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers

[This is an amusing little anecdote, though it lacks the hilariousness of the Originator’s tale about Theodora and her employment of chickens. However, while this anecdote amuses, it cannot possibly be true. Yet again we find the Originator’s imagination distorting the historical realities which underly the Text. A woman, whether Empress or otherwise, is never so casual about the public exposure of her anatomy. When her shame is revealed she reacts with flinching panic, with blushes and delightful squeals of alarm. I myself have observed this on a number of occasions. We would expect that if the Empress Justina had been exposed in the manner detailed then she would have been forced to withdraw from the public eye to come to terms with her shame and to recover her composure. Sot Dawbler, School of Commentary.]

[One is shocked to find one so venerable as Sot Dawbler ‘amused’ by the grossness he has discovered in the Text directly above. Or by the tale of Theodora and her chickens, which, since it is the vile and disgusting invention of a patent lunatic, has been extirpated from this Text on my order. Drax Lira, Redactor Major.]

The corpse master Uckermark was the first to recover himself sufficiently to speak.

‘The boy,’ he said, ‘the boy is my apprentice. He’s, he has fits of unwittedness, but he’s a good boy, your highness, and the knife he had is but a tool of trade. If we can be gone from here I’ll chastise him mightily once we’re back at the corpse shop. I ask only that — the knife, my lady. It’s consecrated to the work of corpses, hence sacred, hence could we have it back?’

Justina considered.

Chegory’s fate hung in the balance.

Fortunately, Justina was acquainted with the corpse master Uckermark. Well acquainted. Very, very well acquainted. In truth, acquaintance of the kind which existed between the Empress and the corpse master went far beyond the borders of that cautious propriety which should by rights govern relationships between females of imperial standing and males of the lower orders. Thus Justina was inclined to gratify the wishes of her loyal subject Uckermark.

And, while she was about it, to gratify herself.

But first she had some questions.

‘This boy,’ she said, ‘is he a clean living young man?’

‘Oh, very clean living,’ said Uckermark. ‘A virgin in truth.’

‘Is he fit?’ said Justina. ‘Is he healthy?’

‘I guarantee him capable of the most vigorous exertion,’ said Uckermark.

‘Has he learnt his table manners?’ said Justina.

‘That he has,’ said Uckermark. ‘Furthermore, if you wish to have him as a guest at banquet I’ll ensure some revision.’

‘You read my very mind!’ said Justina, clapping her hands together in delight. ‘Then the boy will banquet with me tonight. You will accompany him to banquet.’

Then the Empress seated herself sedately on her throne, her slaves resumed the work of fans, and Uckermark recovered the knife so recently taken from young Chegory Guy and hustled his dumbstruck captive away. Chegory cast one glance of appeal at the conjuror Odolo, but the imperial favourite merely spread his hands in a gesture expressive of helpless amazement.

Chegory was so shattered by fate’s perversion of all his expectations and by the sheer velocity of the events which had overwhelmed his life’s routines that he asked not a single question as Uckermark marched him out of the pink palace, down Lak Street as far as the Cabal House of Injiltaprajura’s wonderworkers, down Skindik Way then through the narrows of Lubos to the Corpse Shop.

‘This is my house,’ said Uckermark when they got there. ‘Not for long,’ said Chegory. ‘It’s on fire!’

The door stood ajar — and black smoke was pouring from within. But Uckermark merely laughed and threw the door wide open. Chegory stepped back as clouds of thick, choking fumes billowed outwards.

‘Come in, come in,’ said Uckermark.

‘You’re mad!’ said Chegory, coughing and choking. Then, as the smoke thinned a little, he saw the fumes issuing from large double-handled pots set just within.

‘In,’ said Uckermark.

‘But — but the — but why the smoke?’

‘Because flies love flesh,’ said Uckermark. ‘In, so I can close the door.’

Chegory went inside. Uckermark put the lids on the smoke pots then closed the door entirely. When Chegory had finished coughing and crying — the smoke was devilish for stinging the eyes — he began to look around and get his bearings. There was death everywhere he looked.

Chegory had seen a few dead bodies in his time but the corpse shop was something else again for it was crowded with the unkempt dead. Flies in their thousands buzzed in manic frustration on the outer side of the gauze which sealed the windows against their intrusion. Everywhere there were limbs, bones, buckets of blood, assorted organs spilling out of sacks, heads bereft of connection, unidentifiable torsos and worse.

As for the smell!

The slaughterhouse stench was worse than the gut-wrenching odour which arose from the helpless dements locked into Crawlspace Seven in the Dromdanjerie. It made Chegory nauseous. Uckermark displayed no discomfort, which was understandable; the corpse master had no sense of smell whatsoever, since that sense had been utterly destroyed when his face was ravaged by fire.

‘Sit!’ said Uckermark curtly, pointing to a stool.

Chegory sat, averted his eyes from a pile of unmentionable oddments in a tray near his feet.

‘Thank you… thank you for saving me,’ said Chegory awkwardly.

‘I didn’t save you,’ said Uckermark. ‘I saved this.’ He meant the knife. A pretty thing: its handle azure, its blade celadon. ‘This,’ he continued, ‘must not win unwanted attention, else the Calligrapher’s Union will have to seek a new recognition sign.’

‘The… the Calligrapher’s Union?’ said Chegory.

‘You don’t know!?’ said Uckermark, startled.

‘Know what?’ said Chegory.

‘So you don’t! Gods, I wished I’d — bugger! The banquet. I have to take you to banquet.’

‘Why’s that so terrible?’ said Chegory.

‘Because it means I can’t just cut your thieving throat and dump your corpse down a sewer!’ said Uckermark.

‘I’m no thief!’ protested Chegory.

‘Then how did you get this knife?’

‘I found it, didn’t I?’

‘Found it!’

‘It’s true! What’s with the knife, anyway? That’s — what, something for that union, calligraphy, that’s letterwriting, isn’t it? You’ve got a union for that? Look, I’m not in competition, I can’t hardly write excepting for Ashmarlan, who uses Ashmarlan anyway, I mean a few Ashdans but but-’

‘Shut up!’ said Uckermark. ‘Stop babbling! Just answer questions. You’ll learn all in due course — if you live. If you do want to live pray tell how you came by this knife.’

‘Oh, it’s a long story, a long story,’ said Chegory. ‘A terrible story, you wouldn’t believe, but it’s the truth, I’ll truth it all out to you. There were some shark jaws, you see, down below. That’s after I met the Malud marauders, or was it, no, I met the elf first, he’s a chef at the moment or pretending to be but Downstairs he was all in armour, nice as a fish-skin it fitted, like a, an elven lord from legend. You see-’

Thus Chegory, in a rush, began to vomit up his life’s secrets. Uckermark raised a hand, halting his incontinent blatter.

‘Let’s take this bit by bit,’ said Uckermark. ‘Where did you first lay hands on the knife?’

‘In the dark,’ said Chegory.

Which was true, but was less than informative.

‘Talk sense!’ said Uckermark.