The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers coaaod-6 Read online

  This is the worst thing about these Ashdan liberals. They’re always so ready to think the best of people! Doubtless the kraken would have snacked on Ingalawa and her companions unless Shabble had been on hand. But did Chegory Guy have that in mind when he fetched Shabble from the teapot? Hardly!

  ‘Yes, Chegory!’ said Ox Zan. ‘That’s why I’m here! You have to go back, now, now, right back to Jod.’

  ‘Why?’ said Chegory.

  ‘Because, because,’ said Ox Zan in high excitement, ‘because the wishstone’s missing.’

  ‘So Shabble was telling the truth!’ said Chegory. ‘The wishstone was stolen!’

  ‘If Shabble knows about it,’ said Ox Zan, who had yet to hear Shabble’s story of encountering pirates Downstairs, ‘then maybe Shabble can help get it back. Meanwhile, you’d better run, Chegory. Soldiers are hunting the streets for — what’s the word? — undesirable elements, that’s it! Everyone they catch is getting smashed up to make them tell about the wishstone.’

  ‘Chegory,’ said Artemis Ingalawa severely, ‘is not an undesirable element.’

  ‘Well, you know that and so do I,’ said Ox Zan, ‘but the soldiers-’

  ‘Oh, we all know about the soldiers,’ said Chegory. ‘I’m off.’

  He turned as if to retreat to Jod. But Pokrov caught him by the sleeve.

  ‘Wait about,’ said Pokrov.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said Chegory, already in a panic. ‘They’ll kill me!’

  This was the stuff of nightmare. Soldiers on the street. Hunting. Hunting him!

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Ingalawa. ‘You’re innocent.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ said Chegory. ‘I’m an Ebrell Islander, aren’t I? Pogrom! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’

  ‘Stop being melodramatic,’ said Ingalawa. ‘The pogroms went out with Wazir Sin. You’re a free citizen. You should act accordingly.’

  ‘What?’ said Chegory, scarcely able to believe his ears. ‘Get myself beaten up?’

  ‘You won’t get beaten up,’ said Ingalawa in her lecturing voice. ‘Untunchilamon is under the rule of law. People don’t get assaulted in the streets for no reason.’

  ‘Oh, you might not,’ said Chegory. ‘But I’m-’

  ‘You’re with us,’ said Ingalawa firmly. ‘You’re under our protection.’

  ‘Thanks but no thanks,’ said Chegory. ‘I’m going back to Jod.’

  ‘Oh Chegory!’ said Ingalawa. ‘You can’t just run away like this. You’re a disappointment to me. Haven’t we always done our best for you? Can’t you see? If you always act like a doormat you’ll always get stepped on. You have to stand up for your rights.’

  Chegory knew she was talking nonsense, yet knew he would sorely wound her pride if he told her as much. Pride is the dominant vice of the Ashdans, and Ingalawa had more than her fair share of it. Moreover, he did not want to disappoint her if he could possibly help it.

  ‘You’re coming with us,’ said Ivan Pokrov. ‘If we run into any soldiers we’ll vouch for you.’

  ‘Yes, Chegory,’ said Shabble. ‘And if they hurt you I’ll burn them up.’

  ‘Shabble!’ said Pokrov sharply. ‘You are not to burn anyone up! Do you hear me?’ In reply there came a soft swelling of orchestral music. ‘I mean it!’ said Pokrov. ‘If you incinerate even one soldier, there will be consequences! I’m talking about therapy!’

  The music cut off abruptly.

  ‘Really?’ said Shabble.

  ‘Indubitably,’ said Pokrov.

  ‘Oh,’ said Shabble, in a most crestfallen voice. Then, rebelliously: ‘But why shouldn’t I? Boom! I could burn them up just like that. All gone. What fun!’

  ‘If you go round doing things like that,’ said Pokrov, ‘then nobody will play with you, not ever again. They’ll all be too afraid. They’ll run away. I mean it! Everyone! You’ll be left all alone. Now and forever.’

  ‘Really and truly?’ said Shabble.

  ‘He’s not kidding,’ said Chegory. ‘But if you do want friends, how about finding the wishstone? You could do it!’ ‘I know where it is already,’ said his orchestrally inclined companion.

  ‘Where is it then?’ said Chegory.

  ‘East of sun and west of moon,’ sang Shabble. ‘Supping on soup with the scorpion’s grandam.’

  ‘Shabble would tell if Shabble knew,’ said Ivan Pokrov, ‘because Shabble is a prattlemouth and can’t help Shabbleself. If we could win back the wishstone, why — well, with Shabble’s help, maybe we will. Then we’ll see.’

  On this optimistic note Pokrov led the way forward. Ox No Zan mumbling something about having to fill a prescription — then headed off in the opposite direction. Despite Ingalawa’s denials, No knew that in a situation like this the presence of an Ebrell Islander meant trouble, and trouble was the last thing No wanted. Pokrov’s party continued on its way without any further desertions, though Chegory was still fearfully worried.

  Elsewhere, in the dining room of Ganthorgruk, another fearfully worried man was sipping at a fresh cup of coffee. It was the conjurer Odolo, who was standing by an open window overlooking the Laitemata Harbour, now darkening to squid’s ink in the evening. All the krakens which had upreared from the water were already dead, poisoned by dikle and shlug. The Ngati Moana in the freshly arrived canoe had halted by one of the bloated corpses. Elsewhere, a few rowing boats were setting out to investigate the others.

  Suddenly, Odolo’s attention was attracted by something in his coffee cup. He looked closely. A whirlpool was forming in the coffee. Something was shaping in the whirlpool, was Abruptly, Odolo flung his coffee out of the window.

  Miniature rainbows flashed momentarily from his fingertips.

  He heard a hooting scream from the neighbouring Dromdanjerie, and, wondering if he would shortly join the lunatics there housed, he shuddered. Surely he was going mad. Or was he? Could it be that he was suffering something worse still? Persecution by a sorcerer of surpassing skill, perhaps.

  Or Or what?

  He had no idea.

  Comparing the predicament of these two people, we see immediately that the conjurer Odolo had problems which threatened to be far more serious in the long term. He was going mad; or else he had discovered within himself vast, uncontrollable sorcerous strengths which were activated by his dreams; or else a wonderworker was attacking his sanity by exercise of magic; or else, most fearsome prospect of all, he was in the process of being possessed by a Power of some description.

  Nevertheless, one suspects that Chegory Guy would readily have swapped places with the conjurer had the opportunity arisen. For Odolo was (probably) in no serious immediate danger, whereas things might go very badly for Chegory at any moment. All it would take would be for him to run into a few soldiers who didn’t like the look of his face.

  At first, however, all went well. With Pokrov still leading, they trod the creaking boardwalks of the slumlands of Lubos then gained the precipitous slopes of Skindik Way, where the bloody light of the setting sun was echoed by the bloodstone paving slabs of the road itself. Past the slaughterhouse they went, then past the looming hulk of Ganthorgruk.

  They were at the Dromdanjerie!

  ‘Home safe,’ said Olivia Qasaba.

  But the Ashdan lass had spoken too soon. For a moment later a door was flung open and soldiers came boiling out of the Dromdanjerie itself.

  ‘An Ebby!’ cried one.

  They grabbed Chegory, threw him against the nearest wall and began to search him for weapons. They found them, too. A business blade in a boot sheath, no toy but heavyweight steel sharpened to murder. A skewer-shiv holstered alongside the other boot. A knuckle-lance tucked in a back pocket.

  ‘You got a licence for these?’ snarled a soldier.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Chegory. ‘In the Dromdanjerie, my room, in there, all paid for, all legal.’

  Weapon licences were ten damns each, a heavy price in terms of Chegory’s wages, but he had such a fear of getting in
to trouble that he had bought them regardless. The other alternative, going without any weapons at all, was not tenable for someone who had to walk through Lubos every day on his way to and from work.

  ‘He’s legal!’ said Ingalawa. ‘You see? All legal. You can’t arrest him. Let him go! And me!’

  ‘Shall I burn them?’ said Shabble eagerly.

  ‘You stay out of this,’ said Pokrov. ‘We’ll sort it out.’ Ingalawa was already doing (or trying to do) just that. ‘Stop that!’ she shouted, grabbing at one of the soldiers who was holding Chegory Guy.

  ‘Shove off,’ said the soldier, pushing her away.

  ‘That’s Chegory Guy you’ve got there!’ said Ingalawa. ‘A free citizen of Injiltaprajura who enjoys the full protection of the law.’

  Chegory inwardly groaned. Only an Ashdan liberal would make speeches like that at a time like this. Worse, she had named him! They were mad, these Ashdan liberals. Completely detached from reality. As he had expected, Ingalawa’s intervention was useless. Nevertheless, she persisted.

  ‘We can vouch for him,’ said she. ‘So can Qasaba, Jon Qasaba, Qasaba. He’s just in here, in the Dromdanjerie.’ ‘Oho!’ cried a soldier. ‘So this is a madman we’ve caught! An escaped lunatic!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Pokrov. ‘This is an honest rock gardener you’ve caught.’

  ‘Who are you then?’ said one of the soldiers.

  ‘I am Ivan Pokrov, master of the Analytical Engine,’ said Pokrov with great dignity. ‘Who’s in charge here?’

  ‘I am,’ said a stalwart warrior. ‘Coleslaw Styx at your service.’

  ‘What’s your rank, Styx?’ said Pokrov, in tones which owed more to anger than to etiquette.

  ‘I’m a guard marshal in the service of her imperial majesty Justina,’ said Styx.

  ‘Right!’ said Pokrov. ‘Sort out this mess, Marshal Styx!’ ‘Oh, that’s easily done,’ said Styx. ‘You’re all under arrest!’

  Whereupon soldiers manhandled Chegory and his friends up Skindik Way to Lak Street, across Lak Street and down Goldhammer Rise. Shabble bobbed along after them in a state of high anxiety, and it was Shabble’s light which illuminated the party as the quick-falling gloom of the equatorial night overtook them.

  ‘Where are you taking us?’ said Ingalawa.

  ‘To the Temple of Torture,’ said Styx, thus precipitating disaster.

  All Injiltaprajura knew the Temple of Torture had ceased functioning as such when its patron, Wazir Sin, had come to a sticky end. Ingalawa presumed (rightly) that Justina’s soldiers had taken over the empty building on Goldhammer Rise to use it as a detention centre.

  But Shabble made no such sensible presumption. Instead, the lord of gossip panicked. His friends were going to be hurt, maimed, tortured, killed! They were being dragged to the hideous Temple of Torture! There to endure the unspeakable, the unmentionable, the unthinkable! Shabble acted without further thought. Moments later a dozen burnt and temporarily half-blinded soldiers were staggering around the street.

  ‘Kill them!’ roared Styx. ‘Catch them and kill them!’

  So Chegory, Ingalawa et al. fled for their lives. They ran blind through the night, chancing life and limb as they pelted down Goldhammer Rise. They only halted when they reached Marthandorthan, the dockland area. There Shabble joined them and cast a cone of light around them.

  ‘Shabble Shabble Shabble!’ said Ivan Pokrov in something like despair. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Shabble defensively.

  ‘You crazy gloop!’ said Chegory, beside himself with anger. ‘You burnt a dozen soldiers half to death!’

  ‘I did not,’ said Shabble heatedly. ‘I only singed them a little, that’s all.’

  Shabble was telling the truth. None of the soldiers under the command of Coleslaw Styx had been seriously injured. But it made no difference. Chegory and his companions were suddenly wanted criminals on the run. He said as much.

  ‘But Shabble’s to blame!’ said Olivia.

  ‘Chegory’s right,’ said Pokrov. ‘The law is the law. Anyone with Shabble when Shabble runs amok gets punished.’

  That was indeed the law, or part of it. A good law it was, too. Shabble was potentially a master of arson, espionage and public disorder, so it was best to have the strongest possible sanctions to stop people exploiting Shabble’s weakness of character.

  ‘What — what will they do with us?’ said Olivia. ‘When they catch us, I mean.’

  ‘There now,’ said Ingalawa, holding her niece close and tight. ‘There there.’

  This refusal to provide specifics told Olivia that things were very bad indeed. She started weeping.

  ‘We, um, off the streets,’ said Chegory, conscious of their urgent need to take immediate evasive action. ‘Under cover, we have to get under cover, as soon as possible.’

  ‘You told me once of your cousin, Firfat Labrat,’ said Ingalawa.

  ‘No!’ said Chegory in alarm. ‘Not him! We can’t go to him!’

  ‘But we’d be safe there,’ persisted Ingalawa. ‘Wouldn’t we?’

  ‘All we need is a haven for this evening alone,’ said Ivan Pokrov. ‘Come morning, we can get a good lawyer and sort this thing out.’

  Chegory was not at all keen on the idea. But what else could he do? If he had been on his own, he would have' found one of the entrances to the depths Downstairs, and would have taken his chances in those realms of danger. But he durst not lead Olivia into such places. Reluctantly, he agreed. He would lead them to the lair of Firfat Labrat.

  But where was that?

  Though Chegory was well acquainted with all quarters of Injiltaprajura, he was so upset by the turn events had taken that at first he was lost. Shabble brightened to reveal their surroundings entirely, but young Chegory found that the streets of Marthandorthan were as strange to him as those of an alien city. Then he got a grip on himself, got his bearings, and began to lead the way to safety.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Firfat Labrat was a drug dealer. The drug in question was the dreaded alcohol, a fearful carcinogen which shrinks the breasts of women and enlarges the breasts of men, which gnaws the liver and addles the brain. It rots the unborn while they lie within the womb. It blights the marriages of young and old alike and turns good workers into filthy, unkempt layabouts.

  Such is the demonic allure of this drug that the helpless junkies who become addicted to it will persist in their course of self-destruction despite vomiting, impotence, gastric reflux and uncontrollable outbursts of unpredictable violence or shameless confession. In the final stages of their degradation they cannot live without this hellish brew to which their bodies have become hopelessly addicted. Their limbs shake constantly with fever; the walls around them crawl with nightmarish delusion; all that awaits them is a remorseless descent into insanity and death.

  What kind of depraved person would traffic in such filthy stuff? What foul, leprous ghoul would seek to profit from such? Why, an Ebrell Islander of course! Such was Firfat Labrat. And in the slumlands of Injiltaprajura, where the vice of poverty is at its worst, he found plenty of people ready to work for him. Yes: it is truly remarkable what people will do to avoid starvation.

  Wazir Sin would have put an end to all this, of course, for he was preparing to wipe out the poor entirely when Lonstantine Thrug overthrew him. Since then, men like Labrat had flourished. In fact, in the absence of any strong-minded utopian like Sin, it looked like the poor would be with Injiltaprajura always, and their vices likewise.

  When Chegory brought his friends to Labrat’s lair — a rotting warehouse in a most insalubrious part of Marthandorthan — they experienced some difficulty gaining admission because the search for the wishstone had heightened the sense of paranoia which attended the activities of the loathsome Labrat.

  However, Chegory was not entirely unknown to Labrat’s men, for on occasion he had earnt himself a little mango money by helping shift mysterious cargoes in the depths of bardardornoo
tha. You see? He was an Ebrell Islander through and through. Tainted already by his willing association with the traffic in disease, insanity and death.

  Thus in due course Chegory’s negotiations at the door to Labrat’s lair met with success, and he was admitted together with his companions. So there they were in a drug dealer’s den with soldiers doubtless scouring the streets for them.

  ‘Wait here,’ said a minion. ‘I’ll get friend Dunash.’

  Off went the minion. Chegory and his companions settled themselves on barrels and prepared to wait.

  Olivia stared around with the widest of eyes. She had never before been in a place like this. Shabble supplemented the efforts of a few feeble oil lanterns, illuminating a large hall studded with doors opening on to offices and strongrooms, the air heavy with the scent of joss sticks being burnt to conceal the taint of the drug which was stored in this house of evil.

  ‘How are we going to get out of this mess?’ said Chegory. ‘Shabble? You got us into it. Got any bright ideas?’

  ‘Burning, burning, burning,’ chanted Shabble in a lilting, high-singing voice. ‘Injiltaprajura entire, I could burn it, Chegory. The whole lot! Nothing left! All gone! No more problem then! Right now, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll burn it right now.’

  ‘You will do no such thing!’ said Pokrov.

  ‘Why not?’ said Shabble.

  ‘Because I,’ said Pokrov, ‘would be most annoyed. I might even send you to the therapist!’

  Shabble squeaked with fear and ascended to the ceiling. ‘Could Shabble really incinerate Injiltaprajura?’ said Chegory, with a kind of horror.

  ‘No, of course not!’ said Pokrov briskly. ‘Or not at a single blow, in any case. It would probably take our bubbly little friend several days to barbecue the entire city.’

  ‘You know a lot about Shabble,’ said Ingalawa.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Pokrov, affecting impatience. ‘We chat, you know. Shabble tells me things. Why, it was Shabble who helped my grandfather design the Analytical Engine.’ Pokrov was lying. It was not Pokrov’s grandfather whom Shabble had helped. It was Pokrov himself.