Hugh Cook - The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers

Shortly half a dozen waiters were marched into the Star Chamber. To Chegory’s disappointment they were still as poised and as supercilious as ever. A little waiterly terror would have gone down well with the Ebrell Islander just then.

‘Alcohol,’ said Binchinminfin. ‘We want alcohol.’

‘Yes sir,’ said one of the waiters, a smooth young fellow with a wart on his nose. ‘And may I ask what kind, sir?’

‘Alcohol alcohol!’ said Binchinminfin impatiently. ‘Bring it! Alcohol! For me and my friend.’

‘Your friend, sir?’

‘This!’ said Binchinminfin, pointing at Chegory. ‘My friend. Understand?’ ‘Certainly, sir,’ said the waiter.

A thousand shades of meaning were in those words. None of them was complimentary.

Then Chegory said, in his most casual voice:

‘Have you by chance any firewater?’

‘Firewater, sir?’ said the waiter in his most supercilious voice.

The demon Binchinminfin heard his tone and reproved him sharply:

'You will attend to the wants of my young friend.’ ‘Indeed,’ said the waiter. ‘But I am not familiar with this — this firewater.’

‘Firewater from the Ebrells,’ said Chegory patiently, resisting the urge to knife the waiter on the spot. ‘Ebrell Island firewater, in other words.’ He gathered his thoughts and then, with a fluency which drew upon sublimated fear for its energy, he said: ‘It is a potion most soothing to the tongue, most excellent for the digestion.’

If you say so, sir,’ said the waiter, in tones of careful neutrality. ‘We will see what the imperial cellar can yield. Failing that, we will turn to the… to the resources of the city-’

Oh, it was so delicately said! So nicely put! Done with such an exemplary command of the outward forms of protocol] With such masterly politesse! But it clearly meant: we’re not used to putting up with the depraved tastes of you stinking Ebbies but we can cope if we have to.

While Chegory and his demonic companion waited for the firewater to be produced, Chegory had to field a few queries about other forms of alcohol.

‘What is beer?’ said Binchinminfin. ‘I have heard mention of beer. Another form of alcohol, is it not?’

‘A brew favoured by slaves and stevedores in foreign parts,’ said Chegory.

‘Wine, then?’ said Binchinminfin. ‘What is wine?’ ‘Rotten grapejuice,’ said Chegory. ‘Let’s not waste our time with wine. Firewater, that’s the stuff.’

In due course the wart-defaced waiter returned to the Star Chamber bearing a tray. On it were two jugs and two very small porcelain cups.

‘Firewater, sir,’ said the waiter, balancing the tray on one hand as he used the other to pour a little fluid into one of the cups. The malevolent liquid flowed from the jug in a rippling helix. A snake-voiced protest arose from the porcelain. The liquid burst into flames of dancing green. ‘Vinegar, sir,’ said the waiter, taking up the second jug.

It is alleged that there are occasions on which firewater has been drunk in its original, undiluted form. However, documentary evidence for such experiments is slight. If one were to seek more such evidence, doubtless the best place to look would be in a collection of obituaries.

The waiter poured, topping up the cup with a stream of vinegar which doused the green flames of the firewater, leaving a bubbling brown liquid in the cup. By preparing the drink in this manner the waiter showed that his familiarity with this potion was far greater than he had earlier pretended.

He offered the cup to Binchinminfin, who took it and held it cautiously. Something about the waiter’s manner had alerted the brute to the dangers of this drink, and none passed his lips while the waiter prepared a similar dose for the demon’s guest.

‘Get me something larger,’ said Chegory, spurning the eggshell of a cup. ‘I’m thirsty.’

The waiter yielded to temptation and — though this was most unprofessional — turned his eyes upward to the heavens. Then departed, returning shortly with a skull which had once belonged to Lonstantine Thrug, who had taken it from one of the many men he had killed in the course of his military career. Chegory splashed firewater into this silver-lined ornament, slopped in some vinegar then drank. Binchinminfin was encouraged by this display of enthusiasm. The demon tossed his own cup aside, grabbed the chamber pot which had previously served him as a crown, then held it out to be filled.

The waiter again turned his eyes toward heaven, then sighed, then poured both vinegar and firewater into the chamber pot.

The demon sipped.

‘It’s good,’ he said, in pleased surprise.

‘Oh,’ said Chegory vaguely, ‘Ebrell Islanders like it right enough. But that’s not universally thought of as a recommendation.’

‘No, no,’ said Binchinminfin generously. ‘You do yourself a wrong. This is great!’

The waiterage proved appallingly slow, so refills of firewater were hard to come by. Nevertheless, though it was late in the day when the two started drinking, by dusk the demon had consumed sufficient medicine to be feeling much, much better.

‘You’re right,’ said Binchinminfin. ‘This was just what I needed. But… why are my hands stumbling and yours not?’

‘I’ve drunk more than you have,’ said Chegory, telling this barefaced lie with all the aplomb he could muster. ‘The more you drink, the better you feel.’

‘Oh,’ said the demon, squinting at the candles which had just been lit to illuminate the fast-darkening Star Chamber. ‘And if — if I drink some more will it help my eyes?’

‘Your eyes?’ said Chegory.

‘I see two of everything. Sometimes three.’

‘Well,’ said Chegory, ‘I’m no oculist, but, as I’ve said, Injiltaprajura uses alcohol to treat just about anything.’

‘You mean,’ said the demon, ‘we should drink more?’ ‘But of course, of course!’ said Chegory. ‘If you’ve got enough firewater you can keep drinking all night.’

Which is true enough. It is a matter of recorded fact that Ebrell Islanders have been known to drink firewater steadily from one sunrise to the next. What young Chegory neglected to say was that one stands a good chance of dropping dead during (or shortly after) such a drinking bout.

Thus encouraged, Binchinminfin clapped his hands.

‘Waiter!’ cried the demon. ‘More firewater! Lots of it! Quickly, quickly!’

The waiter withdrew, returning in due course with a fresh crock of firewater and an ample supply of vinegar. Thus the demon and the Ebrell Islander drank on into the night.

What a debauched scene this is! The Ebrell Islander and the demon shamelessly polluting their bodies with the most lethal potation known to the human race! At Chegory’s feet is the delectable Olivia Qasaba, for she has crept close to him for comfort, hoping he has some plan for rescue. Well, he had a plan — to drink the demon into oblivion then knife it. But the presence of soldiers has thwarted that plan. Nevertheless, young Chegory drinks on regardless. The most shameful part of all is that he is starting to enjoy it.

Yes!

This Ebrell Islander, who is by now most definitely drunk, drinks with a will. He is loving it! Now we see how shallow were those moral protestations with which he previously preached against demon rum. Blood will out! Blood has outed! Here is an Ebrell Islander true, a drink-crazed thing wildly giving itself to excess and intoxication.

Yes, young Chegory is drinking with a wild abandon, and fondling the succulent Olivia as he does so. Worse, he is letting her sip from the skull which serves him as a cup. Thanks to an influx of firewater, the blank fear has slipped away from Olivia’s sweet and girlish face to be replaced by something… well, libidinous would not be too strong a word for it. While Chegory fondles her flesh she fondles him back in return. He is her hero who is — she is sure of it — here to rescue her.