Jonathan Howard - Johannes Cabal the Necromancer

Horst looked like he wouldn’t speak at all for several seconds. Then he drew breath and said, “Well. He was going to Hell anyway, so why not get it on an official basis right now and save him the embarrassment of being snubbed by Saint Peter. Can you imagine, all those nuns and things in the queue behind you, and Saint Peter telling you you’re not on the list and you can’t come in?”

“I’m not sure it works like that — although, having seen one postmortem bureaucracy, perhaps it does. I do know, however, that you’re being evasive. There must have been any number of likely candidates for damnation in here tonight, yet you settled upon that one person like … well, like yourself on any moderately attractive girl at a party.”

Horst raised his eyebrows. “Good God, you’re not still bitter about that time at Conrad’s party, are you? I’ve apologised for that a dozen times over. It was a joke .”

“It was a calculated humiliation, but I won’t let you distract me. Why him?”

Horst settled back into his chair. “His girlfriend.”

“What? That mousy woman? Not your usual type at all. Far too much make-up, too.”

“That make-up,” said Horst slowly, “was to hide her black eye.”

Cabal sat up. “Black eye? You mean … that man? Edward … whatever his name is?”

“I could smell the violence on him, even through his cheap aftershave. I know his sort. One day, he would do something a great deal worse. I decided he needed to be stopped.”

“You decided, did you, Horst?” Cabal glared at his brother.

“I decided. I really do know his sort, Johannes. I’ve seen it time and again. His girlfriend was nothing more than a toy he plays with now and then. And he’s the kind who breaks his toys. Well, I decided he deserved a toy that would play with him for a change.” He paused, his gaze distant. “Maybe it will break him,” he added coldly.

There was a silence. Finally, Cabal said, “Being dead has made you rather less liberal than I remember.”

Horst shrugged. “My motto always used to be ‘Live and let live.’ Under the circumstances, I need a new one.”

Cabal looked at the contract. “Now you’ve told me your motives for helping me get this signed, it’s taken the shine off it somewhat. We’re supposed to be doing the devil’s work and you’ve gone and contaminated it all with the whiff of virtue. I really don’t think you’ve quite got the hang of being an agent of evil.”

“Early days yet, Johannes.” Horst stood up and stretched. “Practice makes perfect.”

Pertaining to Satan’s blood, a brief quantitative and qualitative analysis of its use in the creation and running of the Carnival of Discord, also known as the Cabal Bros. Carnival

The diameter of the ball of Satan’s blood as originally provided as the carnival’s “budget” was exactly 356mm. The ball, initially gelatinous and therefore variform to a degree, rapidly settled into a perfect sphere of a smoothness greater than the surface of a neutron star, previously believed to be the most perfect sphere possible.

By the equation V = $$ $$ where r is the radius and V the volume, we discover that the sphere’s volume is — rounding up — 23,624 cubic centimetres (also millilitres) of diabolical blood, or 23 624 litres. Or, as near as damn it, 5.2 British gallons.

Costs incurred against the “budget” are defined in cubic centimetres (cc). Examples are as follows. Note that no two entities created thus had exactly the same cost, even if functionally identical. This is probably due to the inherently chaotic nature of Hell.

Animates

*Low-grade: e.g., riggers 20cc

*Medium-grade: e.g., barkers 25cc

*High-grade: e.g., Bobbins 35cc

*Character-grade: e.g., Bones,

*Layla 50cc Structures

*Concession 30cc

*Sideshow 50cc

*Ride 80cc

Wishes Granted

(This is impossible to quantify effectively, given the wildly differing scale of the wishes asked for. Some were major undertakings consuming upwards of 200cc, while others were rendered without resort to the ball of blood, using either the carnival’s plentiful profits or already existing entities. As an aside, none were granted exactly as the recipient intended. This is a point of principle in such transactions.)

So the carnival moved on and moved on, and it left a thin line of misery and discord behind it at town after town.

Cabal lifted the unsigned contracts from their box, placed the signed ones at the bottom, and replaced the blanks on top of them. Then he put the lid back on, placed the box in the top right-hand drawer of his desk, and locked it. One day, and it had better be some day within a year after he’d started on this whole ridiculous wager, the topmost form would be signed as well, and he would have won. Then he could have his soul back.

And, a small, still voice said within him, you can spit in Satan’s eye, because that’s really what this is all about now, isn’t it, Johannes? It might have started with your soul, but it’s all about your pride now.

But Johannes Cabal didn’t have a great deal of time for small, still voices. He ignored it, and in that small, deliberate inattention, he summed himself up.

Cabal arched his fingers and rested his chin on their tips while he carried out a rapid mental calculation. Providing they stayed on schedule, and providing the other communities they visited were as base and venal as Merton Pembersley New Town, Carnforth Green, and Solipsis Supermare had proved to be, then the target would be reached comfortably within the time limit.

At which point, the train shuddered to a halt.

Cabal jumped down onto the track and looked around. This couldn’t be right; the track was in only slightly better condition than the line on which he’d originally found the train. They were in a long cutting that ran through the countryside, and Cabal couldn’t see an end to it in either direction. The embankments were overgrown with straggling bushes and well-established trees whose branches loomed almost into the train’s path. To one side, Cabal could see a family of rabbits sunning themselves while they watched the carnival with mild interest. This definitely couldn’t be right. This was supposed to be a main line they were on. Cabal made his way to the locomotive but was met by Bones coming the other way. The unnaturally thin man was carrying a rolled-up map.

“Bad news, boss. We are on the wrong line.”

“Really?” said Cabal, looking at the healthy growth of weeds along the track bed. “You do surprise me.”

“It’s true,” replied Bones, long inured to Cabal’s easy resort to sarcasm. “It’s a definite done deal.”

“How did it happen?”

“Dunno. Those smart folk on the footplate didn’t notice anything was wrong for an age, far as I can figure. I’m guessin’ some kids tripped the points and we just” — he planed his hand through the air — “whoosh into the middle of nowheres.”

“How do we get back?”

“Depends on where we are. Look.” Bones unfurled the map on the gravel and weighted its corners down with stones. “We could be on this spur here, or that one there. See? Now, if we’re on that one” — he pointed at a thin line that branched off a thicker one — “well, that’s cool. We just go on till we reach the main line again, there, and we don’t hardly lose no time. If we’re on that one, though, there ain’t nothin’ but buffers in a hillside. We got to go back if we’re on that.”