Hugh Cook - The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers

But my mother especially.

Especially my mother.

Alive again…

‘Why, Cheggy!’ said Justina in concern. ‘You’re crying!’ ‘Just… I’m just drunk,’ said Chegory, taking his hand away from the wishstone.

Then he broke down entirely and wept without ceasing till the Empress Justina rose from the table and led him away, leaving the wishstone to look after itself. Out through a back door they went. Then, with armed guards trailing them at a discreet distance, they made their way by one shortcut and another to Justina’s quarters.

Chegory scarcely noticed where he was. Scarcely took in the padded luxury of furnishings and wall hangings, the gold and silk, the leather and silver, the glittering lamps and the huge mirrors of fabulous worth. Justina took an amphora and poured a bowlful of cold water. She bade Chegory wash his face. He did so, and his tears eased. ‘What is it?’ said Justina, her arm about him.

‘My… my mother.’

‘Is she poorly?’

‘She’s… she’s…’

No words then, only tears.

‘I see,’ said Justina, soothing him, soothing him, patting his back softly, gently. ‘Was it… was it in the days of Sin?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Justina. ‘I’m sorry. But it’s over now. You’re safe now.’

‘But,’ said Chegory, the word blurring through tears, ‘but it’s coming back, isn’t it? He’s winning, isn’t he? He’ll be here, won’t he? Then it’ll be all, it’ll be, it’ll-’

‘There there,’ said Justina, patting him on the back once more. ‘There there. That’s as may be but you’re safe for the moment, you’re perfectly safe.’

She needed no clarification of Chegory’s concerns. His fear was of Aldarch III, the Mutilator of Yestron, who threatened to be triumphant in Talonsklavara. Once the warlord had won the civil war in Yestron and had reunified the Izdimir Empire then he would surely turn his attention to Untunchilamon. Then the wrath of the Mutilator would fall on those who had overthrown Wazir Sin, and he would without doubt appoint a new wazir to complete the work which Sin had begun.

Justina sympathised entirely with Chegory’s fears since she shared them. Aldarch III would doubtless wish to encompass her own death and surely possessed the power to do so. She had nightmares about his advent, as did most of her subjects. So she gave Chegory all the time he needed to recover before she suggested they return to the banquet.

‘Just for a little while,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t, but etiquette demands it. But it won’t last for much longer. Will that upset you too much?’

‘I’m all right now,’ said Chegory. ‘But… no more to drink. I can’t take any more to drink.’

‘Of course not,’ said the Empress. ‘Apart from that… is there anything else?’

‘Anything else?’

‘Anything you… you can’t. Or won’t. Or don’t want to.’

Chegory knew what she was offering him. The chance to escape from all further demands if he wanted to. He did want to! But she was his Empress. It was her father who had overthrown Wazir Sin, thus putting an end to the pogrom. It was Justina who had granted all Ebrell Islanders their full rights as citizens under the rule of an equitable code of law equally enforced.

Hence Chegory was a patriot.

‘My lady,’ he said, mastering his tongue with a supreme effort which vanquished wine, sorrow and a natural tendency toward incoherence. ‘You are my Empress, and I your loyal subject. Your wish is my command.’

‘That’s darling of you Cheggy dear,’ said Justina. ‘That’s truly darling of you.’

Then she led him back to the banquet with the armed guards who had waited outside her door trailing along behind.

When Chegory Guy and the Empress Justina returned to the banqueting hall they found the festivities in full swing. The conjuror Odolo was performing. Even as they entered he was teasing a seemingly endless streamer of coloured paper from his closed fist. Uckermark had shifted from his appointed seat and was now deep in conversation with Log Jaris. A few more drunks had slid under the table. The captured pirates were sitting disconsolately in the starvation cage.

The key to the starvation cage was no longer on the table where Justina had left it. Her albinotic ape had laid claim to it and, having first torn the tablecloth asunder, was using it to graffitograph the tabletop. Oh well. No harm done. But ‘The wishstone!’ said Chegory. ‘It’s gone!’

‘No, no,’ said Justina. ‘There it is, with my dear friend Juliet. Juliet Idaho, you see? They’re passing it round the table, that’s all right. It can’t come to any harm here, not with armed guards on every door.’

They sat.

‘Waiter!’ said Justina.

‘Ma’am?’

‘Take away the young gentleman’s wine. In view of the side effects I’m prescribing him sherbet instead.’

‘Sherbet. Certainly, my lady.’

Chegory’s wine vanished, to be replaced by sherbet in what felt like merely a moment. But it must have been more, for Odolo was done with the streamer and instead was pouring walnuts from his wide-open hands. Transitory rainbows glittered along the edges of the walnuts as they fell.

‘Oh!’ said Justina, ‘oh, do you see what he’s doing? That’s very clever! I haven’t seen him do that before!’

Then something large dropped from Odolo’s hands. It was not a walnut. It was a scorpion. A bright yellow sun scorpion as long as a man’s forearm.

‘My!’ said Justina. ‘How did he keep that up his sleeve?’

The scorpion stood in defiance amidst the scattered walnuts. Claws raised. Tail arched. Its pose was static yet nevertheless managed to convey the creature’s frenzy of paranoid suspicion and homicidal anger.

Schtlop!

A large ewer manifested itself in Odolo’s hands.

Already a bright-burning fluid was pouring from the ewer. The conjuror jumped backwards — leaving the ewer poised in space. It calmly continued to outpour the flaming fluid. Walnuts burst asunder as the fluid swept over them.

The flood of death reached the sun scorpion. It writhed in brief-lived agony. Then:

Cher-lup!

The sun scorpion exploded.

Then the ewer, now empty, burst apart into a shower of butterflies which fluttered upwards. Briefly they rose then transmuted themselves into shards of rainbow — and then were gone.

‘Bravo!’ cried the Empress, clapping her hands.

As Chegory was joining in the applause he noticed more confusion at the main entrance to the Grand Hall. What was it? More prisoners for the Empress? No, it was a man. A wonderworker, if his silken robes were anything to go by. A most extraordinary figure he made, for his skin was of the most startling yellow colour.

‘Look!’ said Chegory, pointing. ‘A yellow man! Odolo must have made him! Just like the sun scorpion!’

‘Don’t be silly, Cheggy,’ said Justina, slapping down his pointing finger to the accompaniment of a delightful little laugh. ‘That’s Dolglin Chin Xter, my Inquisitor.’

‘But — but why is he yellow?’

‘Why do you think?’ said Justina. ‘He’s got hepatitis, of course.’

That was one of the reasons why Dolglin had been made head of Justina’s Inquisition into the drug traffic on Untunchilamon: his disease sharply reduced the temptation to which he was exposed. Hepatitis tends to put people off their drink; furthermore, if they persist in taking alcohol then the effects of such indulgence tend to be dramatic and disastrous.

'Hepatitis?’ said Chegory.

He was so convinced that Xter was a conjuror’s creation that he found Justina’s explanation hard to credit.

‘Didn’t I just say so?’ said the Empress. ‘Yes, hepatitis. The worst case I’ve ever seen. It’s a wonder he’s still alive, yet alone on his feet.’