Hugh Cook - The Walrus and the Warwolf

'Boy,' said Gezeldux, slurring his words, 'you've been good enough for most things, but I bet you're not good enough for this.'

And he pulled out a blue-glazed ceramic bottle and thumped it on his counter.'Firewater, boy, the Old Original from the very Ebrell

Islands themselves. I bet you've not seen firewater before.'

'No,' said Drake, just a touch of uncertainty in his voice.

He had certainly never seen firewater, but he had heard whispers of its evil reputation in sundry drinking places everywhere from Stokos to the Teeth. Until now, he had thought its threat apocryphal. But here it was. The stuff itself.

Gezeldux tipped the last of the salted sprats out of the free lunch bowl, and slowly poured the firewater. The liquid curled slowly through the air, hissing as it hit the bowl. The bowl filled. Green flames danced across the surface.

'Come now,' said Gezeldux, as Drake hesitated. 'A priest of the Flame doesn't fear a fire as small as this – does he?''No,' said Drake, still uncertain.

'Courage, son,' said Jon Arabin, just sober enough to stay upright in his chair. 'You're a hero, aren't you?''Right!'said Drake.

And picked up the bowl with all due ceremony, and drank.

The firewater was cool, it was cold, it slid down like raw fish then flashed red-hot in his stomach. His vision blurred as veils of darkness hazed the room. He felt dizzy. Then, swiftly, his head cleared again, and the fire in his belly died down.

'A good drop,' he said, seeing that the bowl was still half-full.And drank the rest.

'Holy mother of a million octopuses!' breathed Gezeldux, who had not been so awed for fifty years or more – not since the time he first saw Big Bertha's breasts.

'You see?' said Drake, with the triumphant arrogance of youth, putting down the empty bowl. 'There's nothing that can touch me!'That was too much to bear.

'Oh isn't there just,' muttered Gezeldux grimly. T tell you what, young sprig – I bet you can't stay sober on this.'

'Five bricks to a buggering says that I can,' said Drake – which was not actually a bet but simply a bit of gutter-Galish well known from Drangsturm to Chi'ash-lan. 'What is it?''This!' said Gezeldux.

And slapped a small bottle of green cut glass onto the counter. Slapped it down so hard it almost broke. It was a mess of dust and cobwebs, but, polished up quickly, it glittered. With hands that shook slightly, Gezeldux pulled the glass stopper. Then he poured the contents into a transparent drinking glass, a rarity of special manufacture that was not just transparent but was (when scrupulously clean) actually invisible.

Out of the bottle of green cut glass came an orange fluid that writhed slowly in the glass.'What is it?' asked Drake.

'I've no idea,' came the frank reply. 'My great-greatgrandfather took it from the body of a drowned wizard. Never been nobody with the nerve to try it yet.'

'Then I'll be the first,' said Drake, thinking if it was safe for him to drink firewater then it was safe for him to drink anything.He took the glass and downed it.

Almost immediately, several things happened. His legs went rubbery. He fell off the chair, and found the view from the floor hilariously funny. Then he started to float upwards.

'Whoa, boy!' cried Jon Arabin in alarm, grabbing him by the trouser leg before he could float away entirely.T can fly!' cried Drake. 'Look at me!'

And he waved his arms like a bird, and, pretending to be an experimental navigational aid, started flapping in the direction where he guessed the Greater Teeth could be found. He broke free from Arabin's clutches, but was brought up short by the ceiling.

'I always thought you were full of hot air,' shouted Bucks Cat, who had long since forgotten that he was supposed to be a deaf mute.

'Aye,' shouted Whale Mike. 'Full of fart-flame and belly-gas.'

And Drake, looking down on them all, and admiring -in particular – the look of utter stupefaction on Sully Yot's face, collapsed in hysterical laughter. Collapsing thus, he fell toward the drinkers, who shouted in alarm and scattered from their chairs. Then Drake burped, and floated up toward the heights again.Was he tipsy?He was drunk!

Yes, truly, wildly, gloriously drunk, the world around him softened to the luxury of velvet, his body and psyche immune to the pull of gravity – it was wonderful!

The wizard brew he had drunk had been truly enchanted, and its enchantment, being an anomaly beyond the control of the normative functions of the universe, was not subject to detoxification by his body-worms. Drake was not aware of this technicality, but he did rightly guess – even though he was guessing drunk – that somewhere in the world there must be a further source of this ambrosia.

'Wizards,' muttered Drake to himself. 'Aye, wizards . . . that's the answer.'

Goudanism: worship of the Flame (the living presence of the High God of All Gods); veneration of Gouda Muck, swordsmith of Stokos, who is avatar of the Flame, 'as will be verified in the fullness of the Infolding, when Rose and Flame are as one'; corpus of dogmas, rituals, feasts, festivals, superstitions, rules, regulations and denials associated with worship of said Flame and said Gouda Muck.

Drake woke next morning to find himself floating just off the floor, arms outstretched and fingers trailing. Staring at the ceiling, he wondered which hell had claimed him. His head was full of broken glass, his eyes hurt, and his throat felt as though someone had rammed a dirty mop down it. Aye, and left that mop soaking there overnight.

Feeling sick, he rolled over, in case he had to vomit. He hung just above the bare floorboards, observing, without striving for cognition, a dead wine skin, half a salted sprat, a splattering of fish scales, and a solitary cockroach making a hesitant tour of inspection. Then saw, out of the corner of his eye, a green cut-glass bottle lolling on its side.

Now he remembered. Now he knew where he was. This was the bar run by old Gezeldux in Brennan, on Carawell. He was not in hell at all – he just had a hangover. Just! He had forgotten how bad they were.

Clutching a table leg, Drake hauled himself to his feet. He took a couple of steps forward, walking on nothing but air, then slipped. He grabbed the table to steady himself,

then worked his way round the bar. Slowly. Investigating. He opened shutters. Winced as harsh sunlight streamed inside. The cockroach-scout broke off its patrol and fled for shelter.

Motes of dust drifted in the sunshine. Shadows sprawled from mugs, tankards and dead wineskins. A fly, flitting through an unshuttered window, began to dizzy around with an irritating hum. Shading his eyes and peering outside, Drake saw the backside of a boatshed, a couple of houses, and a large stone building which, on the basis of a familiar clanking-hammering sound which started to issue from it, he identified as a forge.

Drake's head began to pound rhythmically in time with the hammering of the unseen blacksmith. Somewhere, quite close, a cockerel began to crow:'Co co rico! Co co rico!'

The fly settled momentarily on the table. Drake brought his hand down with an almighty thump, sending more dust swirling into the air. He examined his stinging palm for corpse mash – but the insect in question was flying happily round his head. It settled shortly oh a shutter. Drake picked up a wineskin and hit it, hard and accurate. The fly dropped dead, the shutter fell off its hinges, and two more flies came bumbling in through the window.

Drake grunted in disgust, and, head hurting worse than before, looked for a hair of the dog which had bitten him. But there was no such dog. The little green bottle was empty, and even a hearty swig of vodka failed to have the slightest impact on his hangover, which, being a consequence of enchanted liquor, was naturally beyond the reach of all ordinary remedies.