Jonathan Howard - Johannes Cabal the Necromancer

Betty made a note and checked the list of appointments. “Oh, you’re due to meet with a Mr. Johannes Cabal.”

“Ah, yes. I’ve been looking forward to this. When does he arrive?”

“Now,” said a familiar voice near his feet. Satan cocked an eyebrow at Betty, who shrugged. He leaned forward to look past his knees. Johannes Cabal stood by the lake of fire, polishing his dark glasses.

“On time, as always,” Satan said, and smiled unconvincingly.

Cabal said nothing until he’d finished removing the last streaks from the lenses, checked them by the infernal light, and put them back on. “I suffered interference in the commission of my part of the wager,” he said soberly. “Thus, the wager is null and void.”

“And it’s lovely to see you, too,” replied Satan, stifling a stagy yawn. “As to the wager, it is no such thing. There was nothing in the rules that said I couldn’t make things more interesting if I saw fit. I saw fit.”

“Don’t be fatuous,” replied Cabal. “There were no rules per se in the first place.”

“Then you have nothing to complain about.”

“Fine. Then I claim the period of one year to be a Plutonian year.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A Plutonian year. That’s two hundred and forty-nine terrestrial years. Approximately.” He crossed his arms. “You don’t have a monopoly on facetious interpretations.”

“Am I to understand that you’re looking for a time extension?” A splendidly smug and supercilious smile slid onto Satan’s face. “That you failed to get the hundred souls? I must admit that I’m a little surprised. I was given to understand that you succeeded with fifteen seconds to spare.”

“There was a clerical error. I only had ninety-nine.”

“Oh, what a shame,” said Satan, fluttering his eyelashes. “So I get ninety-nine souls and I get to kill you, too? O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” he chortled in unctuous joy. “My cup runneth over.”

“Your cup does nothing of the sort. It’s one or the other.” Cabal reached down to open the bag that lay by his feet. He removed the contract box. “Even by the most lax interpretation of the rules, it was a case of either/or. Either I get a hundred souls for you, or you kill me. There’s no mention of any other number. If you want the contents of this box” — he waved it demonstratively — “then we scrap the previous wager and start afresh. Otherwise, their ownership dies with me, and the donors get their souls back.”

“But your soul would still belong to me, Johannes,” said Satan slowly, “and eternity is a long time.”

“I respond badly to threats,” said Cabal without hesitation, and made to throw the box into the lake of lava.

“Wait!” barked Satan. Cabal paused. “Wait,” he repeated in a more even tone. He smiled ingratiatingly, a smile that said, Let us just skip over this unpleasantness, for we are both reasonable men, at least figuratively.

His nostrils also flared as he drew in the delicious scent of innocence. Ninety-seven of the souls were worthless, spiritual slag: hopeless cases whose names had never appeared in the celestial ledger more than very lightly pencilled. But those last two, the Winshaw and Barrow women, they were sweet. Nea Winshaw had acted out of character and had required a degree of temptation to sin so grievously. Still, she had willingly damned herself to save her child’s life. That was piquant. Now, as for Leonie Barrow, absolutely a good person, and apparently incapable of committing an even slightly naughty act. Well, words failed him (although he could probably have made some grunting noises that put his feelings over adequately). And her soul was all his. At least it would be if he could just get it away from Cabal. Of course, Nea and Leonie would only be his little playmates until Judgement Day, but his mouth watered at the thought of all the fun he could have in the meantime. He suffered from the usual problem of the dissolute epicurean — a jaded palate — and new thrills were rare around here.

Besides, if he played one more hand of cribbage, he’d scream.

The dramatic entrance of General Ratuth Slabuth — he hurtled through the cavern roof and plunged into the lava — shattered Satan’s considerations. The molten rock had only a moment to close over his head before it exploded back and Slabuth erupted upwards into a towering column of limbs, angles, and volcanic fury. Lava dripped from his empty eye-sockets, and there was a terrifying scream of primordial rage that battered at the limits of perception. He swept across the surface of the lake and came to a halt standing over Cabal. “You little bastard!” he roared.

Satan settled back in his throne. “You seem distressed, General. Would you like to talk about it?”

Without looking away from Cabal, who seemed only to be concerned by the tiny drops of red-hot rock that rained from Slabuth’s body and was otherwise not worried, the furious general growled, “This … human has been posting notices in the first three rings of Hell!”

“Oh,” said Satan, passingly interested while he thought through the soul situation, “and what did they say?”

“They…” For the first time, Ratuth Slabuth seemed to falter. Indeed, he seemed embarrassed. “They’re personal.”

Satan looked at Betty, who shot off into the air. Brief moments later, she returned with a small poster. Satan took it and read,

“BE IT KNOWN IN THESE PRECINCTS OF HELL THAT THE ARCH-DEMON RATUTH SLABUTH, GENERAL

OF THE INFERNAL HORDES, WOULD HENCEFORTH LIKE TO BE KNOWN BY HIS PREVIOUSLY PREFERRED

NOMENCLATURE, TO WIT RAGTAG SLYBOOTS, DESPOILER OF MILK AND TANGLER OF SHOELACES, INTERFERER OF LIGHT MUSICAL PROGRAMMES UPON THE WIRELESS, AND PROPAGATOR OF UNSOLICITED POST.”

Satan frowned. “I was listening to a performance of Paganini — one of my favourites, as it happens — the other day on the Light Programme and there was this dreadful hissing and popping all the way through it. That was your doing, was it?”

“No!” said Slabuth, mortified. “It’s a lie! That poster has nothing to do with me! This mortal” — he pointed at Cabal, who tutted infuriatingly at such manners — “made it all up!”

“But you were called Ragtag Slyboots, I’m sure?”

“Well, yes, that bit’s true, but I left that behind ages ago. Radio hadn’t even been invented then! It’s all lies!”

“Oh,” said Satan, “that’s a bit embarrassing. I’m supposed to be the father of lies. Fancy not spotting my own kids. Tch.”

Slabuth/Slyboots turned on Cabal. “I’m really glad you lost the wager, mortal, because that means I get to kill you. Prepare to die!” If he was expecting Cabal to cringe in piteous fear, he was to be disappointed. In fact, if he’d been expecting Cabal to do anything other than shake an admonishing finger and point at Satan, he’d have been disappointed, for that was what Cabal was doing.

“Actually,” said Satan in a calm voice that boded bad things, “I think you’ll find that the wager was with me, Corporal Slyboots. If anybody has the right to kill him, that right is mine. As it happens, Mr. Cabal and I are renegotiating the terms of that wager. Therefore, I would thank you to return to the barracks and stay out of matters that don’t concern you.”

“Don’t concern me? DON’T CONCERN ME? I’ll have you know … Hold on. Wait a minute. What was that?” His voice dropped to a disbelieving whisper. “Corporal Slyboots?”

“You heard perfectly well, Corporal. I haven’t been happy with your performance for some time. In line for gingering up.”

“Corporal,” echoed Ragtag Slyboots in a ghastly voice.