Hugh Cook - The Werewolf and the Wormlord

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Nappy. ‘So here’s the things, all the things, and what to do about them. There’s the asylum committee, that’s for the lunatics. The abortion clinic, not that I approve of it, it’s murder if you ask me, but if we don’t then others will, and better for it to be run on a non-profit basis, that’s what I always say. It’s a crime to make money out of something like that, don’t you think?’

‘Agreed,’ said Alfric weakly.

‘Then there’s the charity school.’

‘School?’ said Alfric. ‘What school?’

‘Oh, it’s a new project, you won’t have heard of it. Funding, that’s the problem. Not much money in Galsh Ebrek, you know. Not money enough for all the things that have to be done. But we have our sources. Begging, that’s what it is when you come right down to it. But the Knights don’t pay taxes, and it’s them that has the money, so how else can we get it?’

Then Nappy led Alfric step by step through the intricacies of all the charity work he was involved in; then he passed his lists to Alfric; then Alfric swore himself to continue Nappy’s good deeds.

‘But,’ said Alfric, ‘what about the killing?’

‘Killing?’ said Nappy in surprise.

‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘I mean, someone has to do it.’

‘Oh, don’t worry your head about that, young master. Killing’s no problem. There’s always someone ready to kill. It’s looking after widows and children, that’s where the problem is. No, don’t you worry your head about any killing. They’ll find a killer with no trouble at all. Well, sir, that takes me to the end of it. I’ll show you to the Polta Door.’

‘The Polta Door?’ said Alfric, who had never heard of any such thing.

‘A secret way,’ said Nappy. ‘A secret way in and out of Saxo Pall. My secret, sir, known to me and now to you. Not to anyone else.’

‘I’d rather leave by the main gate.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that,’ said Nappy. ‘They’re waiting for your body. Ursula Major, I mean. Oh, and Ciranoush Norn. They’re expecting it. They won’t come looking for it, not yet, they know my work’s not always quick. But they do want the body, oh yes, and they wouldn’t let it out of their gates, not if they had a choice in the matter.’ ‘So they want to kill me,’ said Alfric. ‘So how do I survive hereafter?’

‘I can’t help you there,’ said Nappy. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve done what I can, but the rest is up to you.’

Nappy guided Alfric to the Polta Door and showed him out into the night. Then Nappy let the door close behind them.

‘Where did it go?’ said Alfric, staring at the rock walls of Saxo Pall. ‘It’s vanished!’

‘It’s closed, that’s all,’ said Nappy. ‘Here, young sir. Put your hand here. That’s right. And the other one there, just there. Now. Push inward and downward with the left hand, inward and upward with the right. See?’ What appeared to be solid rock gave beneath Alfric’s hands, and the Polta Door opened.

‘Finding the place,’ said Nappy, ‘that’s the thing. Finding the place. Landmarks, that’s the thing. Line up landmarks.’

Alfric orientated himself. Looked up the slopes of Mobius Kolb to the walls of the Bank and to the moonshining Gloat on the heights beyond.

‘I can find the place again,’ said Alfric.

‘I hope you can, young sir,’ said Nappy calmly. ‘Because I won’t be here to help you.’

Then Nappy said one final goodbye, went into Saxo Pall through the Polta Door, and let that secret portal close behind him.

Alfric was left alone in the night, which was bitterly cold. The moon was null, but the uncanny light of the Oracle of Ob still shone bright and strong, serving as an acceptable substitute.

But Alfric needed no substitute. Nor did he need the moon itself. Tonight, he knew. He was not the moon’s minion but the Commander of his own Powers, the Commander of the Power to Change. He could do so now, if he wished. Wrists thickening, hairs darkening, teeth lengthening, body girthing and strengthening.

He had the choice.

He could Change, and flee Galsh Ebrek, and live wild as a ravening enemy of the city, live wild in the forest, savaging and destroying at will.

But:

‘That is not my choice.’

So said Alfric Danbrog, then turned his back on the Oracle of Ob and started walking down Mobius Kolb, making for Varnvelten Street and his home.

Of course, this was not the end of the matter. There would always be the moon, and the temptations of the moon. There would always be the memory of those three months in the Qinjoks when he had lived as a wolf, running wild and shameless through the wilderness.

But…

He had faced his great crisis and had survived it. While he was a shape-changer, he knew himself to be fit to live among humans. He had never been entirely sure of that till now. The great burden of his life had been the fear that the madness of the moon would one day overcome him; that his efforts to restrain himself would fail; that he would become one with the ravening beasts, gladly slaughtering any and all without thought for the consequences.

Now he knew otherwise.

He would never yield to such temptation, except by an act of untrammelled free will; and this knowledge of selfpossession compensated for whatever he had lost. Though he had been defeated in his efforts to win the throne of Galsh Ebrek, at least he had full possession of himself.

‘Besides,’ said Alfric, ‘the game is not yet played out.’

He was still alive.

And Ursula Major could not kill him openly, for she had granted him a pardon in the presence of many witnessing Yudonic Knights. When challenged to combat by the ork Morgenstem, Ursula had pardoned Alfric; and law and tradition did not allow such a mercy to be withdrawn.

‘She wants to kill me,’ said Alfric to himself, ‘but it must be done by stealth. Well. I have eyes and ears and hands and feet, and a sword to guard myself, and a stiletto, and a glass eye besides, so what fear have I of assassins?’

He realized that, though he was speaking to himself, his voice was loud. He must be a little drunk.

‘What of it?’ said Alfric. ‘A man may have a little drink to celebrate a victory, may he not?’

Then he went down Mobius Kolb, walking boldly through the night, careless of any danger he might encounter. He went directly to Varnvelten Street. As far as he was concerned, that was enough. His enemies thought Nappy to be killing him slowly in some secret place of screaming horror. They would not look for him in his home or elsewhere, not tonight.

When Alfric got home, he found his house had been looted. Candles lit by the looters were still burning.

‘Robbers!’ said Alfric.

And tried to work out exactly what had been stolen.

Viola Vanaleta’s favourite chair. Viola Vanaleta’s favourite table. Vanaleta’s spare clothes. Vanaleta’s lantern, the special stained-glass lantern which had been a wedding gift from her grandmother.

No, the house had not been burgled.

Rather, Alfric’s wife had come and had removed all that belonged to her, together with all those items of jointly held property to which she had some special claim.

‘So this is it,’ muttered Alfric. ‘This is final. What next? Divorce papers, I suppose.’

And he began to feel weary, very weary, so weary that he wondered if perhaps Nappy had poisoned him. Reeling with fatigue, he stumbled to his bed, and laid himself down without bothering to take off his boots. And when he woke it was morning, and sun was streaming in through a small glass window near his head, and at first he was puzzled by that light, for it was so long since he had seen the sun that he was almost ready to deny the reality of the sun’s existence.