Hugh Cook - The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers

Now was Chegory’s chance.

If one of those plague-silent bodies was Olivia’s, then he must get her out and away now, now, now! Before the battle ended and Varazchavardan was free to turn his wrath on other targets.

He ran forward.

The light flared to a blinding brightness.

‘No!’ screamed Chegory.

He slipped. He slid. He fell. He sent sprawling in the undelights of kedgeree and curry. Splot! He opened his eyes, but found himself blind. Then rage possessed him. He swore as only an Ebrell Islander can. He leapt to his feet, meaning to do battle with anything he in his blindness could find. But his feet went out from under him, for the floor was slippery as a five-lust aftermath. Down he went, and thump went his head on the floor.

Half-dazed, Chegory lay there.

Was his back broken?

No.

Could he get up?

Yes.

Could he see?

Well… a little.

Yes, his sight was returning. Meanwhile, his hearing was as sharp as ever. He could hear a single human floundering around in the slurry. Who? Chegory strove to see. Amidst a wash of purple light and strobing suns he made out the features of Odolo. Yes, it was the conjuror Odolo who was crawling through the food.

So where was Varazchavardan?

‘Chegory!’ said Uckermark, entering the Star Chamber.

‘Watch out!’ cried Chegory. ‘Varazchavardan!’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Odolo, his voice slurring and blurring. ‘Where is Varazchavardan?’

He had to ask because his eyes were nearly closed by bruises. He had been battered as badly as a haplass elitamoripadroti used for a game of kathandamatandatu.

‘Here,’ said Uckermark, striding forward and dealing out a hearty kick to the recumbent body of the Master of Law.

Varazchavardan lay supine and senseless in a sea of kedgeree which was almost (but not quite) deep enough to drown him. But though Varazchavardan was unconscious, his monstrous metal-formed arm, souvenir of his battle of transformations with Odolo, had a life of its own. The finger-equivalents opened and closed. Opened and closed. Opened and closed. Click click click!

‘You must kill,’ said Odolo. ‘Kill him.’

‘With pleasure,’ said Uckermark, scooping a discarded scimitar from the goop on the floor.

This was Chegory’s moment. This was Chegory’s chance. If he had seized it, he could have found Olivia and could have husded her out of the Star Chamber before anything else went wrong. But he failed to take advantage of the brief-lived chance — because he was too busy watching with fascination as Uckermark advanced upon Varazchavardan.

‘Hold!’ cried an intruder.

Uckermark held. Turned. Faced the intruder. Who was none other than Nixorjapretzel Rat. Where had he sprung from? The answer is simple. Rat had watched most of the proceedings from the mezzanine. Now he was intervening to save his master Varazchavardan from certain death.

‘Get crnt of here,’ said Uckermark, raising the scimitar with murder his intent.

Rat raised his hands. He did that bit perfectly. For a moment he looked every bit the wonderworker. Uckermark hesitated, watching Rat with a degree of wary suspicion.

‘Phidamas!’ cried Rat. ‘Phidamas! Strobo, um… stro-boko! Stroboko!’

Nothing happened.

So Uckermark turned back to Varazchavardan, murder once more his intent. Down came the scimitar. Straight into Varazchavardan’s skull. There was a clang of metal against metal. Uckermark dropped the scimitar. He clutched his swordhand.

‘This sorcerer’s skull is of metal!’ said Uckermark.

True. Varazchavardan’s skull had failed to revert to its original bone after the battle of transformations. Worse, Varazchavardan’s arm of monster-metal, which had also failed to revert, was starting to look for something to crunch and kill.

‘Look out!’ screamed Chegory.

Uckermark leapt aside. Just in time. The finger equivalents of the monster-arm closed on empty air and crushed it to nothing. Meanwhile, Rat was still trying to kill Chegory, Uckermark and Odolo by exercise of magic.

‘Phildamas!’ cried Rat. ‘Phildamas stroldoko! Man-credos! Mancredos! Fa!’

At his command, a whirlwind of shadow and flame roared into life. Roaring still, it began to spin toward Varazchavardan’s enemies. They, realising they had underestimated young Rat, took to their heels and fled for their lives.

From the pink palace they escaped: Uckermark, Odolo and Chegory Guy in consort. They did not linger but fled down Lak Street in blatant defiance of the sweltering heat of the day. When they reached the Cabal House of the sorcerers of Untunchilamon, they turned down Skindik Way, disturbing some crows which were holding a business conference, haggling for shares in the belly of a dead dog.

Past the Dromdanjerie they went, then past Ganthorgruk. Then, when they reached the city’s slaughterhouse, they stopped. Hot, panting, and exhausted.

‘Gods!’ said Chegory.

Then said no more, but leaned against a wall and panted some more. He could smell himself. He stank of sweat, curry, chowder and kedgeree. His silken canary robes were near enough to ruined. Gods! What if he was made to pay for new ones? Where would he find the money?

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Odolo.

‘What don’t you believe?’ said Uckermark.

‘What happened!’ said Odolo.

The conjuror wiped a hand across his glistening brow. He shook the hand. Drops of sweat flashed through the air. They made momentary pattern of dampness on the hot bloodstone of the street. But the pattern dried to nothing in instants.

Chegory’s breathing began to settle. The sun shone. A drunken vampire rat staggered from a speakeasy opposite the slaughterhouse, its night-adapted eyes closed against the sun. Chegory watched it for a few moments, then looked back up Skindik Way. Which was quiet, empty and uninteresting, but for the dog-consuming crows.

‘Come on,’ said Uckermark.

‘Where are we going?’ said Chegory.

‘Where do you think?’ said Uckermark.

But Chegory Guy did not think. He only guessed. Where could they go? At a guess, Downstairs. No other destination occurred to him.

‘We can’t go there!’ he said, in tones of horror.

‘We can,’ said Uckermark. ‘We must. We will.’

On he went, with Chegory following after him. At last — to his relief — Chegory realised they were not making for Downstairs. No. Their destination was quite otherwise.

All this time the Malud marauders and Guest Gulkan’s faction had been penned up Downstairs by Shabble, who had not had so much fun for ages. It was delicous! So many people to play with! There were the two wizards, Pelagius Zozimus and Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin. There was the barbarian Guest Gulkan and the shifty-eyed Thayer Levant. Oh, and the three pirates from Asral: Al-ran Lars, Arnaut and Tolon.

During this time — and quite a time it was — these seven prisoners had made their own contributions to the flow of sewage which so liberally polluted the depths of Downstairs. They had scavenged a little ice in the course of their compulsory wanderings but had had nothing to eat, and were consequently hungry, tired and out of temper.

They were also hoarse.

Why hoarse?

Because Shabble had been threatening to amuse Shabbleself by executing them, and to provide the globular one with an alternative source of amusement the prisoners had been telling non-stop stories. True stories, false stories, tales, jokes, legends and chronicles. In between stories, they had been trying to persuade the haunter of many millennia that it would be really amusing to go to Justina’s palace, burn up a few guards and make themselves masters of U ntunchilamon.

Unfortunately, Shabble remained resolutely unpersuaded.