Hugh Cook - The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers

Since Yilda was so patently unfriendly, and since she had a poker clenched in her fist, the captain did not continue with his lighthearted banter but got down to business instantly.

‘We’re looking for the corpse rapist Uckermark and his bum boy Chegory Guy,’ said he.

That is a sanitised version of what he said. However, as no application of censorial expertise could produce a socially acceptable version of what Yilda said in reply, it is doubtless best that her retort be omitted entirely. Let it merely be recorded that by the time she had said her piece, Uckermark had laid down his weapon and had emerged from the shadows. Chegory thought it best to follow suit, and did so.

‘I’m Uckermark,’ said Uckermark.

‘I’m Chegory,’ said Chegory.

‘And if you want either of us,’ said Uckermark, ‘you’d better have a warrant.’

‘We have got a warrant!’ said the captain.

A warrant for what? For the arrest of Chegory Guy? Or for his instant execution?

‘What kind of warrant?’ said Uckermark.

‘This kind!’ said the captain.

With that he thrust the warrant toward Uckermark, thinking the corpse master illiterate, and therefore to be intimidated by this ornate parchment. Truly it was an impressive document, done in kaleidoscopic colours bright and gay. An ominous sign indeed! For in the Izdimir Empire the grimmest orders are so bedecked and adorned. But Uckermark took the warrant, read it at the skim, then handed it back with a sneer.

‘This but tells you to hand us a summons to compel our appearance in court. Give it! Then get out!’

The captain was disappointed. By documentary intimidation he had hoped to extort a bribe from a fool illiterate, but found himself up against a legal expert of sorts. Reluctantly, the captain handed over the summons, which was but a grubby piece of ricepaper ordering Chegory and Uckermark to appear at a depositions hearing at the palace that same afternoon. The conjuror Odolo was going on trial, and the authorities wanted these two to evidence against him.

The captain turned to go.

‘Um, ah, wait a moment!’ said Chegory. ‘How did you know to find me here?’

The captain did not deign to answer. Instead he marched his soldiers away.

‘He knows because the whole palace knows you’re here,’ said Uckermark. ‘I told you so before. Now do you believe me? Since Justina’s favoured you with her attentions you’re famous, at least in the palace.’

‘Oh,’ said Chegory. ‘I thought I was, uh, safe. From soldiers. From Varazchavardan.’

‘Relax!’ said Uckermark. ‘Don’t worry! If Varazchavardan wanted you he’d have claimed your head already.’ Then, as Yilda made as if to remove the smoke pots, he said to her: ‘Leave the pots. We’ll have the door open for a bit.’

‘These are dangerous times,’ said Log Jaris, emerging from the shadows. ‘Today’s no day for open doors.’

‘The way you speak you’d think we were knee-deep in snow,’ said Uckermark. ‘Don’t you feel the heat or what? I’m close to death as it is. The hell with the danger. We’ll leave the door open. If we get but nine tenths of a miracle we might get a litde breeze. Some ventilation. Lest I die!’

‘If you’re worried about death then start worrying about this depositions hearing,’ said Log Jaris. ‘And quickly! This is dangerous!’

‘Odolo knows nothing of us,’ said Uckermark as he retreated back inside leaving the smoke pots to guard the open doorway against flies. ‘He knows nothing of the wishstone or the thieving of such, and nothing of the Calligrapher’s Union or our hand in the organisation of the same.’

‘So far, so far,’ said Log Jaris. ‘But his lawyers will start digging for dirt as soon as we’re known to be witnessing against him. We’ve much to fear from such investigation.’

‘Shall we run?’ said Chegory.

But even as he said it he knew running was no answer. After all, where could they go? He had thought through all the options plenty of times. Hide Downstairs? Or flee the city? If they fled now, they could not depart by sea. Not in the season of Fistavlir. So they would have to go inland.

To Zazazolzodanzarzakazolabrik.

Zazazolzodanzarzakazolabrik, also known as the Scrag-lands, the Wastes, the Scorpion Desert — or Zolabrik for short. A deathscape of sundrought and rupture, of upthrust pinnacles and rotten rock, of dread ruins undermined by sea-flooded tunnels infested by huge sea scorpions, sea centipedes and monsters yet worse. Chegory’s nightmare was to flee to that wilderness where survival’s exigencies would force him to seek refuge with Impala Guy, his father — Jal Japone’s stillmaster. Surely he would then be doomed to become another alcoholic Ebrell Islander, living as a hunted criminal in conditions of the utmost depravity.

He said as much to Uckermark.

The corpse master laughed.

‘So you wish to live innocent, do you? Then you chose the wrong world for your birth. But never mind. I’ve no thoughts of flight to the Wastes. Yes, a depositions hearing means danger — but running means more danger yet.’

Then discussion ended, even though Chegory had a thousand doubts and questions, for Uckermark was determined to devote himself to the business of lunch. They dined on some splendiferous fish, some magnanimous coconuts, some utilitarian water and some nuts pragmatic. With food in his belly, Chegory started to feel better. Until, as he was sitting back in his chair peeling a piece of sugarcane, he got one of the larger shocks of his life.

What caused it?

The advent of a dragon!

Chegory first espied the dragon when it was sitting atop a gaunt-grinning skull. It was a tiny dragon. Naught but the length of his finger. A hallucination, surely. A flashback caused by zen. Chegory fumbled his sugarcane on to the table, for his sweat-slippery fingers could hold it no longer.

‘What is it?’ said Yilda, seeing his concern.

‘It’s a dragon,’ said Uckermark, seeing where Chegory was looking.

The corpse master idly lobbed a mango at the miniature monster. The mango missed. Splattered. Log Jaris picked up a piece of clean-scraped coconut shell and flicked it across the room. But his missile also missed. Then the two men began to compete, disposing of the remains of their luncheon in a quick-fire fusillade. The dragon took evasive action. The two ex-pirates rose to the challenge.

Thus it was that when Artemis Ingalawa entered the corpse shop she came upon a truly manic scene. An angry, irritated dragon was slip-sliding through the air as it tried to simultaneously attack its persecutors and evade a barrage of plates, pots, skulls and slops.

'Stop that!' said Ingalawa.

Her sharp command quelled the riot on the instant. The last missiles clattered against the wall. The dragon, seizing its opportunity, hurded toward Log Jaris. Then thought better of it, veered away, and alighted atop Ingalawa’s head. She brushed it away with an irritated hand. The dragon took to the air again. Ingalawa turned the full force of her fury on Chegory Guy.

‘Chegory Guy’’ said she. ‘What are you doing here?’

“You — you have a dragon on your head,’ said Chegory, for the dragon had resettled atop the Ashdan mathematician.

'That doesn’t answer my question,’ said Ingalawa curtly, ignoring the dragon as she tried to stare down the delinquent Chegory Guy.

The hair-riding dragon farted, emitting a tiny burst of steam from its rear end. Chegory, unable to help himself, broke into hysterical laughter. Ingalawa was furious. She swept the dragon from its perch. It tumbled into the air, recovered itself, then flew out of the corpse shop. In the street outside, somebody screamed.

Chegory knew that scream.