Hugh Cook - The Werewolf and the Wormlord

‘Will you marry me?’ said Blaume.

‘I’ve told you before,’ said Alfric, ‘I’m married already.’

‘She’s no good for you,’ said Blaume. ‘She’s a bloodless thing bereft of passion.’

‘But so am I,’ said Alfric.

‘So in combination you’re naught but disaster,’ said Blaume.

Then leant across the bar and kissed him again. But he was not tempted, not tonight; so he brushed her away.

Anna Blaume was a red; or, to put it more politely, a person of Ebrell Island descent. However, she had not the red hair so typical of that breed; instead, her hair was yellow. It was so filthy that its texture was that of coarse straw, and it was streaked with blue dye and green. Is it any wonder that Alfric was not attracted? What attracted him was the thought of a warm bed, a good long sleep without tree-roots ribbing into his back, and then work at the Bank. Ah yes, the Bank.

‘So you’re not in the mood,’ said Anna Blaume.

‘I’m not,’ said Alfric. ‘Not tonight.’

‘But you came here for something. Not just to bring back the horses, I’ll warrant.’

‘You’re right,’ said Alfric.

‘You want a favour, I suppose. Let me guess. You want me to quarter these orks.’

‘If you would,’ said Alfric.

‘Of course I would,’ said Blaume. ‘I can’t have you taking them home, can I? You might cook them — like you cooked the last lot.’

Anna Blaume laughed uproariously as a shocked and terrified Morgenstem clung to Cod for comfort.

‘Never mind, love,’ said Blaume, reaching out and patting Morgenstem on the arm. ‘You won’t get eaten here.’

‘They’d better not,’ said Alfric, with feeling. ‘They’re ambassadors. Ambassadors from the king of the Qinjoks.’ ‘Oh, ambassadors, are they?’ said Blaume. ‘You’d be an ambassador yourself, by the looks of it. An ambassador from the realms of the dead, if I be a judge. Time you were home and in your own bed, if you’re not going to jump into mine.’

‘I won’t argue with that,’ said Alfric.

Then Alfric Danbrog and Anna Blaume exchanged goodbye kisses, and Alfric started for home, leaving his orks in the care of the proprietor of the Green Cricket.

Of Alfric Danbrog’s domestic relations, the less that is said the better, for the subject is a sorry one. However, some comment must necessarily be made.

There was trouble when Alfric reached home. First, because his thoughts were all for the various despatches from the Bank which awaited his arrival. Second, because he had brought his wife no present from the Qinjoks. Third, because he answered her welcoming kiss in the most perfunctory manner. Fourth, because he supped her hot soup hastily, reading a despatch from the Bank as he did so; his lack of appreciation being so great that he quite failed to realize that this was the very seaweed soup he had lusted for as he drew near the Stanch Gates.

Is it any wonder that a quarrel shortly ensued?

The quarrel became a raging row. And, in a moment of blind anger, Alfric lashed out and caught his wife with a four-knuckle punch which laid her out on the floor. He tried to apologize, but that did'him no good and her less; and when at last they retired to bed, she made her body a flesh-clothed skeleton, and rejected his every advance.

Not that he advanced too strenuously, for he was weary, and his greatest lust was for sleep.

Early the next night, Alfric Danbrog woke from sleep, took his breakfast, then set forth for the Bank. As he tramped through the backways of Galsh Ebrek, making for the slopes of Mobius Kolb, he was armed as if for war, and with some reason. Galsh Ebrek by night was not the safest of places, as anyone could have guessed by listening to the brawl-bawdy uproar of the taverns, or by inspecting the massive iron bars with which the merchants of that city habitually invest their windows.

As Alfric went down Tupping Way, the door of a lushery was thrown open. A drunken lantern lurched, sagged and went down as a drunk collapsed in the mud. The hapless inebriate lay there, doomed to become the prey of mutchers unless rescued by a selfless citizen. Alfric, lacking the time to be such a citizen, pressed on regardless, leaving the drunk to his doom.

Alfric reached the foot of Mobius Kolb unscathed and began to ascend that huge upthrust of rock. He passed beneath the monstrous battlements of Saxo Pall then laboured upward toward the granite outworks of the Bank. At the gates of the Bank he paused. Higher yet, on the utmost summit of Mobius Kolb, the Oracle of Ob shone moon-bright. As always, Alfric found it disturbing to look upon that alluring light by night. As always, he was tempted to ascend, to close with that light and confront.

As ever before, Alfric resisted the temptation, turned from Ob and went in through the gates of the Bank.

‘Your pass, sir,’ said a sentry.

An unavoidable formality, even though sentry and banker knew each other by sight, and had done so for years. Bank security was second to none, and for good reason. Yielding to the dictates of that security, Alfric pulled out his pass and unfolded it. This document identified him as Izdarbolskobidarbix, Banker Third Class, his affiliation being with the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association. His details were there given in a dozen different languages; and, on the back, there were both his palm-prints and his footprints.

‘Welcome, Iz-bix,’ said the sentry, handing back the pass.

‘My greetings to the greeter,’ said Alfric formally, then passed within.

As always, Alfric was tempted to chastise the sentry for abbreviating his name. Izdarbolskobidarbix was no idle monicker but a very formal name which should not be idly perverted by wageslave minions. He would let it pass for now. But once he made Banker Second Class, then things would change!

In the vestibule, Alfric divested himself of boots, leathers and weaponry, donned silken robes and slipped his feet into warm felt slippers. He was entering another world. He was leaving Galsh Ebrek, city of clumsy warriors addicted to dreams of beserker blood; and he was entering upon the organized sanity of the Bank where click-clacking abaci measured the constant increase of power and of influence.

Once changed, Alfric set forth for his office. To his surprise, in the lantern-lit corridors he passed Justina Thrug, who gave him a casual nod as she went by with her escorts.

Banker Eg was waiting in Alfric’s office.

‘Good morning,’ said Eg.

Of course it was night. Still, it was the beginning of their working day, so a ‘good morning’ was not entirely illogical. Besides, Eg was speaking Toxteth; and that coarse and violent language is robust enough to survive a great deal of abuse and misuse.

‘Good morning,’ said Alfric, taking off his spectacles and polishing them with a clean white cotton handkerchief. ‘I just passed Justina Thrug in the corridor. What’s she doing here?’

‘I believe she came in for a loan,’ said Eg.

‘A loan!’ said Alfric. ‘Against what surety?’

‘I said she came for a loan,’ said Eg. ‘Not that she was granted one.’

As everyone knew, Justina was the daughter of Lonstantine Thrug, a knight who had emigrated with his family to foreign parts. The entire family had died or disappeared in a series of overseas disasters; whereafter Justina had returned to Wen Endex, alone and penniless. (And almost toothless, for she was well past the first bloom of youth, and had abused her dentition in tropical climes by an over-use of sugarcane.)

‘Well,’ said Alfric, rummaging through his in-tray, ‘I hope she doesn’t get a loan. Or, if she does, that I don’t have to enforce its collection.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Eg. ‘You’re not likely to. I hear a whisper that you’re in line for promotion.’