The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers coaaod-6 Read online

  [Incredible indeed this familial relationship appears to be on the face of it. All authorities agree that the requisite inborn Talent for wizardry is exceedingly rare; furthermore, scarcely one apprentice in a hundred survives the Trials to which the evil wizards of the Confederation subject their students. Nevertheless, a diligent scrutiny of genealogical records sourced in Wen Endex has demonstrated the existence of two cousins so named. That bare fact in itself proves nothing, but the fact that neither is credited with either marriage or progeny may be significant. Those interested in pursuing this matter further will find the necessary references in paragraph 2201 of Issue 4368 of Volume 941 of the Genealogical Abstract. Oris Baumgage, Fact Checker Minor.]

  These, then, were the people with whom Chegory Guy was confronted. Guest Gulkan, exiled emperor of Tameran. Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin, wizard. Pelagius Zozimus, wizard likewise. Oh, and a fourth — Thayer Levant, a cutthroat from Chi’ash-lan. A nasty, shifty, dangerous piece of work if ever there was one. Rat was his face, but for his eyes, which were vulture. A rag-tatter patchwork cloak he wore, rigged so it could be swiftly offslipped for a knife fight, and cunningly weighted with lead so it could be used as a weapon in such a fight. Since Levant had no language in common with Chegory Guy, he could but stand silent while the Ebrell Islander poured out his story.

  Chegory told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, yet Gulkan, Sken-Pitilkin and Zozimus had deep reservations about the story they were hearing. This is understandable. After all, young Chegory was an Ebrell Islander, and these people of the fire-burning skin are notoriously untruthful. They are bom degenerates with an innate genetic disposition toward drug-taking, the murder of cetaceans and that violent and obscene game known as ruck. In most cases those of the flesh of this foul, polluted people drink themselves to death by the age of forty (unless they die first of diseases venereal) and the world thinks itself well rid of them.

  Once Chegory had finished his story, Zozimus retailed it in abstract to Thayer Levant in Galish, then all four swordsmen had a quick conference on Chegory’s future, voicing their thoughts in the same tongue since they were sure the Ebrell Islander would find it unintelligible. Indeed, young Chegory Guy was unknowledgeable in Galish, which is scarcely surprising since one would have been scrabbling to find any native of Untunchilamon who could converse in that language, which is the Trading Tongue of Argan’s Salt Road, and hence belongs to another world entirely.

  ‘I say kill him!’ said Thayer Levant.

  ‘You would,’ said Pelagius Zozimus disapprovingly.

  ‘The boy by chance could help us,’ said Guest Gulkan.

  ‘Help us?’ said Levant. ‘How?’

  ‘Maybe by guessing us a way to seize the wishstone,’ said Hostaja Sken-Pidlkin.

  The wishstone?

  Yes!

  Precisely how Guest Gulkan and his comrades came to Untunchilamon is a mystery which is unlikely ever to be resolved, for they never confessed their mode of travel to any competent informant. But what is certain beyond a doubt is that they came to Injiltaprajura solely in order to find the wishstone. Indeed, it was this band of four adventurers which was responsible for the gaping hole in the treasury through which Chegory Guy had so recently ventured.

  Thirty nights earlier this quartet had ventured Downstairs, meaning to find their way to the treasury, blast a hole in the wall, seize the wishstone and be gone. Unfortunately they had run into problems. To be exact, they had lost their way, and had then encountered a therapist left over from the days of the Golden Gulag. It had taken the combined strength and skill of all four to allow them (barely) to escape the clutches of the therapist.

  After that trauma — strong men have died of less! — they had at length navigated to the treasury. Then the two wizards Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin and Pelagius Zozimus had used the very last of their presently available power to destroy part of the wall. (They were, you see, ignorant of the existence of the secret door earlier used by the Malud marauders.)

  The adventurers had expected to find the treasury dark and empty in the dead of night. Instead, they had found it bright-lit and aswarm with activity. They had fled, and hence had not seen the riot which their attack on the treasury had provoked.

  ‘You think he could help us to the wishstone?’ said Levant. ‘Okay! Ask him! I wager you’ll not get much help from him.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Zozimus. ‘He’s an Ebrell Islander, is he not? They’re notable thieves, you know.’

  Levant knew no such thing, for he had scarcely even heard of the Ebrell Islands. He shrugged and said:

  ‘As you wish.’

  So Pelagius Zozimus spake unto Chegory Guy and said:

  ‘Let’s be frank. We’re here for the wishstone. Can you help us get it?’

  ‘You mean,’ said Chegory, ‘you’re hunting the thieves who stole it?’

  ‘What are you babbling about, boy?’ said Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin. ‘We’re not looking for thieves. We’re thieves ourselves. To wreck a way into the treasury of Injiltaprajura and make off with the wishstone is our intent. We got as far as the wrecking but found soldiers within. Can you tell us why?’

  ‘I’ve as good as told you already,’ said Chegory. ‘The wishstone’s been stolen already.’

  ‘Who’s got it?’ said Guest Gulkan.

  ‘Oh, it’s no use asking him,’ said Zozimus, still speaking in his native Toxteth. ‘He won’t know.’

  ‘But I do, I do,’ said Chegory, eager to please since he thought pleasing likely to prolong life. ‘It’s pirates, that’s who. Three pirates of Ashdan race, though they’re not from Ashmolea, no, they’re from Asral. That makes them of the Malud, it’s Malud they speak though their skins are Ashdan, but Shabble knows Malud as good as Ashmarlan, Shabble’s an expert with tongues, and besides one of them could speak Ashmarlan in any case.’

  Thus it tumbled out. Fear, fatigue and an intense eagerness combined to produce an overall effect of unintelligibility.

  ‘Slow down a bit, boy!’ said Sken-Pitilkin. ‘You’re not at race with a dragon, you know. Tell us in bits. First bit. You’re a pirate, are you? Is that what you’re trying to tell us?’

  ‘Oh no, oh no,’ said Chegory. ‘I’m an Ebrell Islander.’ ‘That,’ said Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin dryly, ‘is no disqualification from piracy.’

  Then he led the interrogation of Chegory Guy until the truth, or Chegory’s version of it, had been extracted. Many subsidiary questions followed until Chegory’s stumbling tongue began to bungle so many words he became quite unintelligible.

  ‘So,’ said Pelagius Zozimus, summing up, ‘these pirates would appear to have the wishstone at the moment.’ Chegory grunted in assent.

  ‘Well,’ said Zozimus briskly, ‘in due course no doubt we’ll catch up with your pirates. Meantime, we have to get out of here. In the confusion of flight from the treasury we happen to have misplaced ourselves. You know this labyrinth well?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Chegory.

  Though he was near numb with fatigue he was s till sufficiently alive to danger to realise that his captors might well kill him out of hand if they once thought him no longer of any use to them.

  ‘Good!’ said Zozimus. ‘A guide, at last! Lead on, little chicken, lead on.’

  So Chegory set off through the underground passages, choosing his direction at random but treading the magnanimous stones underfoot in a confident manner meant to suggest that he knew exactly where he was going.

  [Translator’s note: preliminary Inspection of this Translation has resulted in numerous Queries, one of which relates to the existence of‘magnanimous stones’. Please be assured that the Text has been Translated with Accuracy Ultimate. The fault, if any, lies with the Originator, who would appear to have, at best, only a shaky understanding of the accepted meanings of the word ‘magnanimous’.]

  That was the night that Chegory Guy learnt what it means to be asleep on one’s feet. Often he stumbled through dreams as he trekked endlessly, endless
ly, through the tortuous tunnels. He blinked awake to find himself walking over stone lit by bloody red light. Over black grass growing soft and silent beneath banks of warm grey lights. Over fractured ice, the spillage from chambers where an ice-making machine dropped huge blocks of frozen water on to pyramids of shattered crystal, splintered light.

  It was only after the ice was far behind and lost to sight that Chegory realised he should have picked some up to appease his mounting thirst.

  Too late, too late!

  Through dreams he walked, and then through nightmare.

  Where?

  ‘Where are we?’ said the violence, shaking him awake.

  He woke.

  The lord in the elven armour had him by the arm. Blue eyes, blue eyes he had. Obscured by smoke, smoke which made young Chegory cough. His eyes stung. Seared by the smoke. He shook his head, closed his watering eyes. Darkness veiled his eyes and was slow, slow to clear.

  ‘A temple,’ said the greybeard.

  Voice clear in Toxteth.

  ‘That much I’d guessed,’ said the lordly armoured one. ‘But why’s he brought us here. Well?’

  Another shake, jarring Chegory from dream.

  He squeezed tears from his smoke-stung eyes. Cracked them open. Just enough to see. Smoke ascending from huge amphorae scabbed by age. Strings of teeth stretched from floor to ceiling. Jaws, huge jaws, gaping jaws fresh-painted with blood. Jaws dead but alive with potent horror.

  ‘Out,’ said Chegory, blurting the word with the urgency of a man vomiting up choking blood. ‘Out, get out, get out, out now, out or we’re dead.’

  He had never been anywhere like this. But he knew exactly what it was. It was a temple of Elasmokarcharos, the shark-god of the Dagrin, the aboriginal people of Untunchilamon. And the stuff burning on the altar was zen, zen, it was zen, he had breathed of it, had ‘Out!’

  Thus Chegory. All panic.

  But:

  ‘There’s nobody here,’ said the leather-girded barbarian, sword out, sword at the ready.

  ‘Music,’ mumbled the greybeard.

  While the elven lord was dancing already, was swaying, was stepping, pacing out with an even tread measured in dignity, slow-measured, while down on his hands and knees was the shifty man in the ragtattered cloak, while The jaws!

  Free-floating through the air came the jaws of the shark. Fresh blood on the teeth. Gnashed open, gnashed shut.

  ‘Not real,’ mumbled Chegory.

  Then they lunged, they closed, his arm upflung, bitten, gone, and the pain was real real real, he screamed and screamed and screamed. Screaming, fled.

  Stumbling through giddy smoke till there was no more smoke, no smoke, no light, dark only, a smouldering dark through which he wept, agony, his arm was agony, then there was light light light, bright phosphorescence to which he went, only to find the light full of drifting blood.

  ‘My arm.’

  He touched his arm. Left hand to right arm. Felt the stump, the bloody stump, it was his, it was his, it was his blood feeding the vermilion fog which crowded the air.

  The jaws of the shark had been real, had closed, had torn, had wrenched away his arm, had left him a cripple, bleeding, in agony, dying, dying, dying.

  He sobbed with choking horror.

  His legs were subsiding, sliding out of control as he fell toward darkness, toward darkness, the darkness.

  Darkness all.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘Joma dok notora koopeniti.’

  Thus a voice.

  ‘Joma, joma!’

  Insistent. Urging.

  ‘Sleeps you?’

  That much intelligible. In Ashmarlan foreignly voiced.

  ‘Sleeps?’

  A boot. Hard.

  Chegory lay still, pretending to be dead. Then a hand grabbed his hair. A full handful of it. Yanked. Hard. He could pretend no longer, hence lurched from the ground. He was seized immediately. His arm wrenched back in an armlock. His arm? Right arm! But that was gone, gone, gone, torn and missing, brutalised by a shark, by the bare and barren jaws of a shark free-swimming through the air itself. Wasn’t that so?

  No.

  That had been but a hallucination.

  He had breathed of zen, had he not?

  He had.

  That much he remembered.

  Ah yes, it was coming back to him. The temple of the shark-god Elasmokarcharos. Set up in the manner often described to him by men who had been, who had seen, who had dared. Ancient amphorae from which issued a choking smoke. The smoke of zen, the herb which ruptures reality.

  ‘Are you listening?’

  Hard voice emphasised by a slap.

  ‘I’m deaf,’ said Chegory, who had been too full of relief for his recovered right arm to pay attention to the lean and elderly Ashdan who had been addressing him in garbled Ashmarlan.

  ‘But you hear me now? Right?’

  A shake.

  ‘I hear you,’ said Chegory.

  He was released from the armlock. As if in reward. Then questioned.

  ‘Very well! Who are you?’

  Chegory summed his interogator. Ashdan. Old. Eyes hard, fierce, tired, impatient, desperate. A young one with him, Ashdan likewise. Oh, and a third. A big man, not surpassingly tall but broad as a barrel.

  These three he recognised from Shabble’s description of adventures Downstairs. These must be the pirates who had stolen the wishstone from the treasury! Shabble had played with them for much of a night, driving them to and fro through the underground mazeways. Then they had escaped their captor when the foolish imitator of suns had slept, trusting them to meanwhile stay put.

  Pirates, then.

  Pirates of the Malud, from Asral, where life is hard and often short. He must remember that they thought of themselves as the Malud and would take great offence if they were called Ashdans, even though those two peoples were in physical terms identical. What else did he know about Asral? Ingalawa had been there, and claimed it was ‘I said,’ said the old man, enunciating his words with great care, ‘I said, who are you?’

  From the way he spoke Chegory knew his own life might prove exceedingly short unless he came up with a satisfactory reply, and shortly.

  ‘I’m Chegory Guy,’ he said, in Ashmarlan far better than that of his interrogator. ‘I work for Jon Qasaba in the Dromdanjerie. That’s our madhouse, in case you didn’t know. I’m down here looking for Orge Arat. He’s a lunatic. He escaped. He’s loose with an axe. He’s dangerous as seven hells or seventy dragons ravening.’

  ‘As dangerous as what?’ said the old man, not understanding this last complexity.

  ‘He’s dangerous dangerous!’ said Chegory, urging a touch of the frantic into his voice. ‘We’d better get out of here, out of here fast, he’s killed Qasaba already, there were five of us, now one, myself alone, sole survivor, the man with the axe he did for the others, hacked off arms, off heads, off fegs.’

  ‘Soboro mo?’ asked the young Ashdan.

  ‘Dab an narito,’ answered the old man.

  ‘Para-para. Al-ran Lars,’ said the big man.

  ‘Tolon! Skimara!’

  That from the old man. While they discoursed thus, Chegory was scrutinising his surroundings. He was in a tight-curving corridor. Underfoot was a luxuriant growth of black grass which rustled when stepped on. Overhead, warm grey lights. The pirates continued to dialogue in their incomprehensible argot, presumably the Malud which ruled all conversation on far-distant Asral.

  Chegory listened. Hard. Above and below the meaningless pirate talk he heard a thin high whine. Soft, soft and distant. Something rumbling. Low, ominous. Muted thunder. Rumbling this way. Rumbling that. Pausing. Then onrumbling further yet. An intestinal grumbling sourced somewhere in the walls. Some kind of animal there? Or water or some other fluid forcing itself through tangling pipes?

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  Thus the elderly pirate.

  Emphasising his query with a slap.

  ‘Deaf!’ said
Chegory, a touch of genuine panic to his voice. ‘Deaf, I’m deaf!’

  ‘Dandrak! But now you hear!’

  ‘Yes yes yes, we’ve been through that. Okay. What do you want? You want me to get you out of here? I know the way, I can take you up, out, wherever you want to go.’

  ‘Good,’ said the pirate. ‘That’s what I wanted to know. Very well. Since you know the way, lead on.’

  So Chegory was off again, once more bluffing diligently as he feigned full knowledge of the labyrinth through which he led the pirates who had thieved the wishstone and who (surely) still had it in their possession.

  Could he get it off them?

  He began thinking, hoping, planning, speculating. If he could triumph that spoil away from them he’d be a hero to all Injiltaprajura. Praise him with great praises! Chegory the Great! Hail him a hero!

  ‘You sure you know where we’re going?’ said the elderly pirate as Chegory hesitated at an intersection.

  ‘This way, this way,’ said Chegory hastily.

  So saying he led them on through light, through darkness and into light yet further still. He had quite lost track of time. Was it undokondra still? Or bardardomootha? Or had the sun bells rung out to announce istarlat’s start? He had no idea, just as he had no idea how far he had wandered through the territory of shadow and nightmare. But what he did know was that he thirsted and hungered, his thews were aching and his mind was near boggled by fatigue.

  He could not remember when he had last seen or smelt sewage. The absence of the human waste suggested they were deep, deep underground, far below the surface of Injiltaprajura. Or maybe somewhere under the Laitemata Harbour. There was no sign of vampire rats in these odourless corridors, either, which again indicated that they were deep indeed.

  Stairs. Thafs what I need. Stairs to go up.

  Luck then favoured young Chegory with a find in the form of a stairway leading upwards. He took it. Up they went. A mere thirty steps took them to a landing where they had the choice of taking a narrow, unpromising side tunnel lit by a dull purple light. Chegory spared it barely a glance then went on and up. Another landing, another side tunnel. Still the same purple light within. Likewise on the third landing. The fourth. The fifth. The sixth. By which time Chegory was panting and sweating, his heart playing at hammers in his chest. He was sorely troubled to find himself so fatigued so quickly. It told him his physical reserves were nearly exhausted by hunger, dehydration, labour and lack of sleep.