Hugh Cook - The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers

‘We’ve talked too much already,’ said Uckermark, pulling on his second-best pair of boots. ‘Friend Zozimus is right. Let’s be on our way. But first-’

‘First what?’ said Zozimus impatiently.

‘I had a botde I meant to trade to the wonderworkers, but they weren’t in the mood for trade. So…’

So the rebooted Uckermark gathered together a gim-crack collection of cups, bowls and tankards. Then, with utter contempt for the laws of Injiltaprajura, he cracked open his bottle of Dragonfire and poured a tot for everyone present (with the sole exception of Shabble).

‘A toast.’ said Uckermark.

This thing called a ‘toast’ is one of the rituals of these alcohol-abusing drug-takers. It is a very important ceremony which lies right at the heart of the drug-taking cult. Indeed, students of such aberrations believe that, for many addicts, such rituals are almost as important as the actual alchemical effect of these toxic substances.

‘A toast.’ said Uckermark. ‘To… to Justina Thrug!’

All raised their death-containers then drank. The mumbling-muttering Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin was so shaky in the hands that he spilt half his drink, but he managed to down the rest. Only Chegory Guy left his cup untouched.

‘You’re not drinking with us, boy,’ said Uckermark, in tones of sev ere disapproval.

‘I have an upset stomach,’ said Chegory lamely.

Actually, he was thinking of Olivia. She who was (at least in his imagination) so pure and spotless. He was ashamed of the number of times he had been tainted by alcohol in the recent past. Now he was decided. Hereafter he would keep himself pure for her, abjure the horror of drugs and remain staunchly teetotal.

‘Ah well,’ said Uckermark philosophically, ‘if you’re sick, you’re sick.’

Then he downed Chegory’s share of the Dragonfire.

‘Okay!’ said Uckermark. ‘Let’s be going! Shabble, you lead the way!’

But Shabble had closely followed all the negotiations and explanations which had taken place in the corpse shop. The imitator of suns wanted nothing to do with demon-killing, particularly as this Binchinminfin sounded easily dangerous enough to kill a poor defenceless Shabble.

So the childlike one again played dead.

‘Shabble!’ said Pokrov, giving the dead-dull sphere a kick. ‘Wake up! Or I’ll get a therapist! I will, you know!’

But Shabble woke not. So Chegory pocketed Shabble once more, and the heroes (now ten in number) set off for the palace, leaving Yilda in sole possession of the corpse shop. As none of the three factions entirely trusted the others, Uckermark brought the wishstone along lest one faction abandon the others in battle and race back to the corpse shop to seize it.

[The Originator errs. There were not ten. There were actually eleven of them. Guest Gulkan, Thayer Levant, Pelagius Zozimus, Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin, Al-ran Lars, Arnaut, Tolon, Chegory Guy, Uckermark, Logjaris and Ivan Pokrov. Twelve, if one counts the goblin Shabble. Prill, Pedant Minor.]

Closely did the manly dark embrace the heroes, holding them in its virile grip as they hastened toward the pink palace with an enthusiasm for battle which was made all the greater by the Dragonfire they had consumed. Booze had put fire in their bellies indeed. Even Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin advanced with a will, albeit at a muttering stagger.

Up Skindik Way they went, past the slaughterhouse, past Ganthorgruk and the Dromdanjerie, to Lak Street. As they passed the Cabal House of the wonderworkers they heard the party within still raging strong. On they went, past the ship-sized bone chunk known as Pearl, then past the houses of the great and the grand aglimmer with the blue-green light of moon paint.

The pink palace loomed ahead.

Dark as an untenanted skull.

Chegory began to lag behind, for, while the danger of internecine conflict seemed past, he was appalled by the swaggering overconfidence of his fellow heroes. Since the young Ebrell Islander was innocent of the consumption of any alcohol, he did not share this braggadocio. His head was clear, and he had had time to think.

He had thought indeed.

While the idea of killing Varazchavardan had been his to start with, was it really such a smart thing to do? So the man was possessed by the demon Binchinminfin. So what? Who cared if a demon ruled Untunchilamon? Doubtless the demon would go in for a certain amount of rape, pillage and torture, for tradition tells us that demonic creatures from the World Beyond are addicted to such activities.

But — seriously now — could a demon possibly be worse than Aldarch the Third? They have a bad reputation, these demons, but that reputation is mostly hearsay. If Binchinminfin ruled Untunchilamon, surely the island would be safe from the Mutilator of Yestron. Which was a major consideration now the Mutilator looked likely to win the civil war raging in the Izdimir Empire.

True, the wonderworkers claimed that Binchinminfin was the first of a storm of demons which would destroy the world. But were the wonderworkers necessarily to be believed?

In retrospect, Chegory thought the sorcerers in the Cabal House had all been enjoying themselves far too much. Perhaps the world was truly endangered. But he strongly suspected the wonderworkers were only using that as an excuse to get smashed on alchemical alcohol. That the world would still be there in ten days’ time, and the sorcerers knew as much.

By the time Chegory had thought all this, he was at the entrance to the pink palace. However, he had lagged so far behind that the others were out of sight.

‘Well,’ said Chegory, ‘that’s their problem, not mine.’

He wiped his face with his hands, smearing away the sweat which bubbled so freely from his skin, then sat down in the portico, leaned back against one of the dark pillars which he knew to be pink, and waited. After a while, Shabble crept from Chegory’s pocket, rose into the air to a height of seventy incas, and began to glow softly.

‘So you’re alive,’ said Chegory moodily.

Shabble assented happily, then began to sing a cheerful little song.

‘Turn down the light,’ said Chegory. ‘You’re a beacon for every moth in creation.’

But the demonic one brightened slightly and began dancing in the air, playing with the moths. Chegory thought of threatening his feckless friend with the therapist (whatever that was). The threat always worked. But he was too tired to bother. A kamikaze bug splattered itself against the therapist-fearing beacon, which promptly nuzzled up to Chegory to remove the wreckage. Chegory pushed Shabble away, and again wiped his hands over his face. He was still sweating. He’d never known it to be so hot!

At least there’s no mosquitoes.

So thought Chegory.

The next moment, of course, he heard a mosquito zining through the air beside his right ear. He swatted the mosquito. He missed. But stung his own ear nicely.

‘Shabble,’ said Chegory, ‘why don’t you make yourself useful? See where our dear friend Ivan Pokrov’s gone.’

‘We know where he’s gone,’ said Shabble. ‘He’s gone to kill the demon Binchinminfin.’

‘Well, why don’t you go in after him?’ said Chegory. ‘You’re not afraid of a little old demon, are you?’

‘Not sure,’ said Shabble guardedly.

Actually, though Shabble sometimes had fun pretending to be a demon, the cautious survivor of many millennia wasn’t really sure what a demon was. Furthermore, Shabble was in no hurry to find out the hard way.

Chegory waited some more.

Then he heard footsteps approaching at the totter. Cautiously, he got to his feet. He stared into the interior darkness of the palace. Ivan Pokrov emerged from that darkness and stood before Chegory. Swaying.