Hugh Cook - The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers

On downhill they went till they came to the hovels and scramble-walks of Lubos. Without warning, the sky above was briefly illuminated by a flash of weird blue light which could have been — anything. It gave them a brief glimpse of their own shocked and frightened faces. Then night claimed dominion once again.

‘Shabble!’ said Pokrov. ‘Where are you? Where’s your light?’

‘Here I am,’ said Shabble, brightening as Shabbleself recovered from the fear brought out by the inexplicable skyflash.

Then there came a cry of utter agony. From where? They could not place the source. After it died away, they were silent. Listening. Hearing — nothing. Nothing but dripping sewage, heavy snoring from an attic window, and the steady downfall of a nearby fountain.

‘Come on,’ said Uckermark.

Then led the way to his corpse shop, where Yilda greeted them with relief and with half a thousand questions.

‘I should have kept a diary,’ grumbled Uckermark, for he knew Yilda would not be satisfied till she knew everything.

As Uckermark did his best to answer some of Yilda’s questions, Chegory made them all some hot coffee. He knew his way round the place fairly well by then. He scarcely noticed the corpse stench, and, rather than thinking of the shop as a house of horrors, found the place rather homely.

A measure of how he had fallen! How far! Indeed — and how fast!

Once Yilda’s omnivorous curiosity had been placated, and coffee had been served, it was time to face the question. The logical, obvious, necessary question, which Chegory nevertheless articulated:

‘What now?’

What would you have done, my hero? What would you have done if you had found yourself sitting there in Uckermark’s corpse shop with a mad demon on the loose in Injiltaprajura? To the corpse master himself, the next move was crystal clear.

‘I vote that we get drunk,’ said Uckermark.

But Log Jaris demured.

‘Friend Uckermark,’ he said, ‘the game is not yet played out. We’re not dead yet. We can yet escape — at least with our lives. I vote we flee to the Ngati Moana. Tonight. Between us we own enough in gold and silver to bribe them to give us passage.’

‘Impossible!’ said Guest Gulkan. ‘I came for the wishstone. I’m not leaving without it!’

‘Besides,’ said Chegory, ‘what about, um, Olivia, okay? She’s still with the demon! So’s Ingalawa — and the Empress! We can’t just, well, run off and leave them, can we? Some of them, maybe, okay, but what about Justina?’ ‘What about Justina?’ said Uckermark. ‘She’s a big girl. She can look after herself.’

‘But Olivia, then!’ said Chegory.

‘You’re the one who loves her,’ said Uckermark. ‘You look after her.’

‘Who said I love her?’ said Chegory, blushing. ‘I said nothing about love. It’s — it’s responsibility, that’s what it is. We have to go back for her.’

‘We’ve gone,’ said Uckermark. ‘We’ve been. We’ve tried. We’ve dared. What we could do we did do.’

‘Oh yes!’ said Guest Gulkan. ‘And you lost us the wishstone doing it! I wish I’d killed you the first time I’d set eyes on you.’

Tempers then threatened to get out of hand but Pelagius Zozimus managed to settle the temper of the Yarglat barbarian while the bullman Log Jaris counselled Uckermark against violence.

Then:

‘Jod,’ said Ivan Pokrov. ‘That’s where we should go. That’s where we left Odolo. Mayhap the conjuror can help us plan. After all, he’s the one who knows the demon best.’

Debate ensued. Pokrov’s will prevailed. Yilda was left to guard the corpse shop while the members of the anti-Binchinminfin league made their way to the waterfront and skulked across the harbour bridge toward the dark uprising of Jod. From the fishgut gloom of the Laitemata there arose the overpowering smell of dikle and shlug. The stuff was still pouring from the wealth fountains, forcing the heroes to make the last part of the journey on stilts.

Once they were in the Analytical Institute, Ivan Pokrov led them to his private quarters where they found the conjuror Odolo sleeping sweedy.

‘Let’s wake him up,’ said Chegory, still hoping for advice which would help them wage war against Binchinminfin and win Olivia’s freedom.

But Pokrov had other ideas.

‘Let the poor man sleep,’ said Ivan Pokrov. ‘He’ll know as much at dawn as he knows at the moment, no more and no less. Meantime, come through to my office. I’ve got something to show you.’

All followed Pokrov into his private office where, with solemn ceremony, he produced a large flask.

‘I’ve been doing some alchemical research in my spare time,’ said Ivan Pokrov. ‘This is the end result of my labours.’

Then he took some small china cups and poured them each a dose of a subtle fluid the colour of a virgin’s inner flesh. Uckermark sniffed. Then sipped. Then rolled his eyes in delight.

‘Beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘Beautiful!’

Logjaris tried it.

‘Not bad,’ he admitted.

‘Not bad?’ protested Uckermark. ‘It — it’s magnificent!’

A duckling raised on such stuff would have grown into a dragon. A kitten which lapped on such would have matured to a tiger. So at least thought Uckermark. But Chegory thought otherwise. For a single sip sufficed to tell him that this was alcohol. Chegory, who knew the true evil of this filthy poison, spat it out, then turned on the analytical engineer.

‘You made this?’ said Chegory.

‘Truly,’ said Pokrov, with pride.

Chegory was appalled. Was there not one person of integrity in all of Injiltaprajura? He had thought Pokrov every bit the solemn scientist, dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge and learning, yet here he was revealed as a bootlegger dealing in drugs most foul — drugs which corrupt the sOul, rot the liver, maim the unborn in the womb, savage the brain and leave the victim a helpless imbecile shuddering from one waking nightmare to the next.

At least Injiltaprajura still owned one upright citizen. Chegory Guy himself had not wilfully broken the law. (So he thought — conveniently forgetting incidents such as his vigorous attempt to vandalise the door to the Cabal House.) He had tried to serve, honour and obey the established order. (Was there any merit in this when the alternative was almost certain to be execution?) He had tried to be an obedient slave to the law, to be a dutiful cog in the system like one of the thousands of little titanium cogs that clicked around in the heart of the analytical engine. (So he told himself, forgetting that one of his daily dedications was to knifefighting practice — hardly a hobby indicative of meek submission to the ruling order.)

Face to face with temptation, Chegory vowed that he would try to remain a strictly honest and upright citizen, direct and truthful in all his dealings with his fellows, sober for life, an unspotted virgin till the day of his marriage. He would show them! They would see that an Ebrell Islander could be as moral as the next person! Or more so! Despite the bloody stain which tainted his flesh he would prove himself pure!

As Chegory was so thinking, he heard someone sniggering. With murder in his heart he searched all faces, ready to kill when he discovered the mind-reader who was laughing at him. But it was only Shabble, chortling at some private joke.

‘Come, Chegory,’ said Ivan Pokrov. ‘Aren’t you going to drink with us?’

‘No!’ said Chegory.

He waited for the men to be done with their drinks and to settle down to the business of planning war against Binchinminfin. But other drinks followed the first. When the flask of liquor was drained, Ivan Pokrov produced a second. Then a third.