Hugh Cook - The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers

‘Triakisoctahedron!’ said Varazchavardan. ‘My, what a big word for an Ebby! This is no triakisoctahedron. This is the wishstone! The precious magic which Chegory Guy stole from the treasury then used to overpower Justina by sorcery!’

‘You put the thing up his sleeve before you pulled it out,’ said the conjuror Odolo. ‘Besides, that’s no wishstone, that’s-’

Bro Drumel made a curt gesture. A guard grabbed Odolo from behind and muffled him. Judge Qil protested.

‘I say!’ said the judge. ‘You can’t-’

But he too was suppressed even as Varazchavardan’s voice rose above Chegory Guy’s protesting babble.

‘You see?’ said Varazchavardan, holding up the cut-glass bauble. ‘The wishstone! Stolen by Chegory Guy! Used by him to subvert the rule of law! To win the heart of the Empress! Nightly she couples with this sweaty animal, this thing from the gutter. His vices have half-emptied the treasury. His counsel-’

‘Hey, hey!’ said Chegory desperately, so astonished by these blatant libels that he could hardly speak. ‘I never-’ A guard hit him. Once. Hard. In the delectable softness below the floating ribs. He doubled up, hissing with pain. He heard Varazchavardan’s remorseless eloquence playing to the prejudice of the crowd. There was a cry of ‘Kill the Ebby!’ Things were starting to look grim for Chegory Guy. Then Justina made her move.

At the top of her lungs she shouted:

‘It’s lies! All lies! Rise up, my people! Liberate your Empress! Five dragons for every man proved loyal!’

Five dragons is a lot of money as wealth is measured on Untunchilamon. Fifty dalmoons! Or, to put it in terms even a rock-gardening Ebby could understand, two thousand damns. This massive bribe brought those most eager surging to the very edge of the mezzanine floor. But the scimitars of the waiting guards were very sharp, and nobody was quite prepared to be first to jump to the ground floor.

Varazchavardan considered offering a matching bribe to the crowd, then saw there was no need. The spectators had been for the Empress, then against the Empress, and now they were for the Empress again. Which proved they lacked the single-minded passion which makes people dangerous in decision. The scimitars alone would hold them. Furthermore — what was this, fast approaching? Why, another squad of guards!

‘Clear out the spectators,’ said Varazchavardan.

Bro Drumel amplified his orders, and soon it was done. Varazchavardan’s coup was complete.

‘You know it’s all lies!’ said Chegory. ‘That — that thing it’s, it’s not the wishstone, is it? You put it, didn’t you? Up my sleeve!’

‘Perhaps,’ said Varazchavardan, ‘but it will serve as excuse sufficient for your execution. And for the execution of the old whore who’s nightly been entrancing you into her perfumes.’

Chegory, seeing Olivia looking at him with horror, protested:

‘It’s all lies! Lies! About the Empress and me! And — and you can’t kill her. You gave your word. Taking care of her, that’s what you said. The Dromdanjerie. You gave your word!’

‘Lightly given, lightly withdrawn,’ said Varazchavardan. ‘She’s too dangerous to keep under lock and key. Come undokondra, the vampire rats will have her.’

‘This is pure perduellion,’ hissed the Empress. ‘You shall pay for this!’

‘I can afford to,’ said Varazchavardan dryly. ‘I have an excellent credit rating.’

‘You jest?’ said the Empress in outrage.

‘Why not?’ said Varazchavardan. ‘Were you ever more than a joke? A libidinous soldier’s brat from Wen Endex posturing in the robes of empire!’

The Empress struggled. Chegory struggled too, trying to make a break for freedom. Olivia screamed, and Artemis Ingalawa began demanding a lawyer. Then Uckermark broke free. The corpse master scooped up Odolo and bashed the two nearest guards with this convenient weapon. Down they went. Down went Odolo too. Uckermark was off! For a moment he was on the loose, running for the nearest door. Then Bro Drumel tackled him. The pair crashed to the floor. A good half-dozen soldiers promptly jumped on the bold-daring corpse master.

The situation was under control again.

Momentarily.

Then:

‘Gaa!’ screamed one of the soldiers holding Dolglin Xter.

The soldier’s clothing had turned to a scuttling curtain of scorpions.

As the soldier writhed away from the sorcerer, Xter flung up his hands and said:

‘Anitha! Bin go ska-’

Then a soldier kicked him in the crutch. He doubled over and (for the moment) said no more. In the air above him, a half-formed horror monster with three mouths and half a dozen arms wavered, made tentative groping movements toward Varazchavardan, then disintegrated and disappeared.

‘Right!’ said Varazchavardan. ‘That settles it! We’ll kill the lot of them! Right now!’

Thus spake Varazchavardan. Whereupon the Empress Justina wrested herself from the grip of her guards in one convulsive convulsion and tried to claw out the sorcerer’s eyes. Her savaging fingernails raked his countenance. Then her guards secured her again. Varazchavardan stood. A drop of blood welled from a claw-track. Fell to the pink tiles. Red upon pink.

Ah, beautiful, beautiful! It is strange, is it not? This Varazchavardan was but a banal power-player wargaming for dominance, yet his blood was as red as the juice of a ruby, potently suggestive of that very special wound which obsesses our imagination. But his blood’s outflow was wasted in the Star Chamber, for none had eyes for this beauty, or time for the thoughts of seduction and lost virginity which it should have stirred. Instead, their minds were given to anger.

‘Chop their heads off,’ said Varazchavardan.

‘Chop off whose heads?’ said a guard.

‘All of them!’ said Varazchavardan, with a wave of his hand which doomed all the prisoners to instant death. ‘The Ebby. The Ashdans. The mad daughter of the madman Thrug.’

‘You mean… you mean the Empress?’

‘By Sqilth and Zigletz!’ said Varazchavardan. ‘Didn’t I just say as much but a moment ago? Who do you think I mean? The Green Octopus of Outer Branpapia?’

Silence.

Silence from the Empress, too enraged to speak.

Silence from Olivia, too shocked to speak.

Silence from Uckermark — a fatalist at heart.

Silence also from Chegory Guy, who was now (he was an Ebrell Islander, remember!) waiting for any momentary chance in which he might get the opportunity to kill V arazchavardan.

Then Odolo piped up, and this is what the conjuror said: ‘If you please, I’ve… I’ve no strong political beliefs of my own. There’s no need to kill me, for I’ll happily serve the victor.’

‘Silence!’ said Varazchavardan. Then: ‘Kill them!’

But still his guards made no move to lop off heads. After five years of the benevolent rule of Justina, they were quite out of the habit of executing people. Besides, they were all in their best dress uniforms, which had been bought at their own expense, were hideously expensive, and would get mined entirely if they obeyed Varazchavardan then and there. After all, it takes but a cup of blood to besplatter a man from head to toe, and those of you who have seen a judicial decapitation will agree that the spillage from such is far greater and that the chances of the executioner avoiding the outspurt are negligible.

Thus, while the guards had no special regard for the Empress, they were far from keen about the idea of instant executions. At the very least they wanted the chance to put on some old clothes before they started chopping heads.

‘Sir,’ said Bro Drumel, understanding his men’s hesitation, ‘sir, if you please, sir, execution would best be done later, sir, in accordance with the proper forms, sir. Sir, shall I have the prisoners taken away, sir?’