The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers (7 page)

‘Gods!’ said Odolo, swilling it round in his bowl. ‘Is there a doctor in the house?’

‘Enough of your cheap cracks,’ said Jarry the chef, who had a hangover. ‘If you don’t like it, don’t buy it.’

‘Cheap?’ said Odolo. ‘No joke is cheap if loss of life be its inspiration. Unless the life in question was yours, dear Jarry. A joke would be a bargain if that were its price.’ Jarry hawked and spat, missing Odolo by a fmgerlength. The conjurer retreated, bearing his breakfast away to a table out of spitting range. Then he began to eat.

Usually, part of Odolo’s daily routine was to play animal-vegetable- mineral with his breakfast, to the general amusement of all in earshot. But this morning he slopped down the food without comment, scarcely tasting it. He was still thinking about the jug of blood.

He finished his breakfast, pushed the bowl away from him, and paid out another damn to buy himself a cup of cinnamon-flavoured coffee, which he took to his favourite window. From here, one could look over the roofs of Lubos to the waters of the Laitemata, to the island of Jod, to the island of Scimitar which lay yet further south, to the lagoon beyond Scimitar, to the Outer Reef and then to the scintillating immensity of the open sea.

Odolo loved that view.

As he sipped his coffee, he thought of all the things he had to do that day. By rights he should go to the Vidal mansion to make a formal apology for the joke he had made at the funeral of Old Redlegs. He had to placate his bank manager, and try to convince the old monster that the overdraft was not nearly as large as it seemed. Since there was to be a Petitions Session on the morrow, he should drop by at the treasury to clean the Imperial Sceptre. It would only take a few moments. Then he had some tricks to rehearse for his performance at the banquet which would follow the Petitions Session.

Okay. And what else? The room, of course! Have to get someone to clean that bloody room.

As Odolo was so thinking, the clearing maid screamed. Moments later, he knew why. Miniature rainbows were dancing above the breakfast bowl which he had so lately emptied, and the bowl itself was boiling with frenzied blue scorpions.

CHAPTER FIVE

The island of Jod.

What and where?

‘What’ is easy enough. It was the home of the Hermit Crab and also of the marvellous building of imported white marble which housed the Analytical Institute. ‘Where’ is equally easy. The island of Jod lay - and lies still, one presumes - in the middle of the Laitemata Harbour. To the north, the mainland of Untunchilamon and the city of Injiltaprajura. To the south, the minor island of Scimitar, then the Outer Lagoon, the last reef rocks and the limitless blue sea beyond.

What and where are accounted for. So what about why? The hell with why! This is a history book, not a treatise on philosophy. If the island of Jod had, in any sense, a ‘why’, it is not for us to enquire into it.

Who, then.

A question more worth asking.

There were many people on Jod. There was, for example, Ivan Pokrov, head of the Analytical Institute. Then there were algorithmists, mechanics, kitchen hands and others. But let us start at the bottom. Let us start with the lowest of the low, which must mean, of course, that we find ourselves starting with an Ebrell Islander.

With, to be precise, young Chegory Guy.

When do we start with him?

In the morning. Not the early morning, where we left the conjurer Odolo staring aghast at a bowl full of scorpions. Not the mid-morning, either, for we have passed over that in silence. No, we start with Chegory Guy in the late morning, at the tail end of istarlat.

It was late morning on the island of Jod, and, as per usual, Chegory Guy at work on the rock gardens. He was proud of his job, and of his reputation as a good, reliable worker who needed no supervision. Stupid Ebby! His pride was grossly misplaced. Despite all his endeavours, no rock under his care ever enlarged itself by so much as a fingerlength. His rocks were sterile, and did not multiply. Barren were his labours, and bitter were the fruits thereof.

[It is doubtful that this criticism is seriously intended. While the Originator doubtless hates and despises Ebbies (and who can blame him?) he here appears to be making an ill-advised attempt to indulge in humour. Unlike market gardeners, rock gardeners are neither required nor expected to fecundate the earth. Habble Skim argues that crystal flowers are known to grow in deep desert, and that the rocks of Untunchilamon may possess a similar potential for enlargement. They do not. Here I speak from personal knowledge. An alternative theory has been advanced by Gin Anvil, who claims that insanity is here in evidence. But is it? While that is a possibility, it is hard to locate another passage where the Originator deviates even slightly from accepted dogma regarding the nature and potential of the physical universe. Therefore, while I do not claim to understand the attraction of ‘humour’ (and would regard any insinuation that I am a ‘humorist’ as being libellous) I nevertheless believe that all evidence and research supports my contention that we are here in the presence of a joke.
Drax Lira, Redactor Major.]

Nevertheless, Chegory was happy in his work, even though his pride in his labours was fatuous. However, he was scarcely going to get rich through such employment, since his job paid him but five damns a day.

Untunchilamon still used the official currency of the Izdimir Empire, in which there are forty damns to a single dalmoon and ten dalmoons to a dragon, with each dragon containing one standard pearlweight of basilisk-grade gold. Note that the dalmoon herementioned is not to be confused with the coin of identical name which is used in Dalar ken Halvar solely for the ritual purchase of aborted foetuses. Note also that in the Malud of Asral, ‘dalmoon’ denotes a gaff-rigged boat rather than an item of coinage.

Things are unlikely to have changed since my departure from Injiltaprajura, so a traveller planning a visit to Untunchilamon should be able to rely on the imperial coinage. However, if one is starting out from Obooloo, please note that the turquoise strings so often used as a medium of exchange in the markets of Ang find scant acceptance on Untunchilamon, where money-changers will give you naught but ten per cent of their customary value. The money-changers are also highly suspicious of the spings, flothens, ems and zeals issued by Obooloo’s Bondsman’s Guild. On the other hand, saladin rings are treated as cash, just as they are in the imperial heartland, and have a similar purchasing power.

With that noted, let us return to Chegory Guy, still rock gardening on Jod, and still earning no more than five damns a day. In Injiltaprajura, a damn buys no more than it buys in Obooloo, and five damns will scarcely purchase a kiss, far less one of the greater pleasures. Thus we see that Chegory was without a doubt impoverished. However, his needs were few. He got his lunch for free, and paid but fifty damns a month to board at the Dromdanjerie. Hence he managed.

Chegory was still working some time later when the noon bells rang out. Their brazen voices carried clearly across the sun-hammered waters of the Laitemata. Young Chegory quit work and took lunch to the Hermit Crab. He emptied lunch (two pails of broken meat) into the trough in front of the Crab’s cave. Then he lingered, wondering if he dare ask the Hermit Crab what had happened the night before.

What had made the lights go out, the dogs of the city wake, and rainbows burst across the sky? The Crab should know, for the Crab was (at least by reputation) omniscient. Chegory was curious; he wanted to know for the sake of knowing. Furthermore, if he won a reply from Jod’s most notable resident, it would give him the confidence to ask for help with graver matters.

What Chegory really wanted to do was to change his race. His skin marked him for what he was. Thanks to his genetic inheritance, he could never escape the relentless categorising of a society which regarded him with (at the least) disdain. Consequently, Chegory had developed two elaborate lines of daydream, one pessimistic, the other optimistic, but both offering certain attractions unavailable in reality.

At times, he imagined himself transformed into a rock. A solid, inert object disregarded entirely by the public which trampled it underfoot. To some people, this would be the stuff of nightmare, but Chegory drew pleasure from such inauspicious reverie because as a rock he was safe from scorn, immune to pain, a world removed from injury. In his more optimistic daydreams, he changed not into a rock but into - into something else. It mattered not what, as long as that something was not an Ebby. He longed to clothe his soul in the flesh of an Ashdan, or to garb his spirit in the smoke-grey of the Janjuladoola people of the imperial heartland. Even the pallor of the people of Wen Endex appealed, though aesthetes everywhere despise it.

Since Chegory worked in such close proximity to the Hermit Crab, and daily served lunch to that entity, he was ever aware that the stuff of fancy could be made the stuff of flesh, or (to put it another way) that his red-skinned flesh could be made into something more to the world’s fancy. But he had never yet been able to nerve himself up to ask the Crab for assistance.

‘What,’ said the Hermit Crab, ‘are you waiting for?’

Chegory did not dare speak his mind. He did not ask for miracles. Instead, he meekly asked: ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

To which the Hermit Crab answered: ‘Stand out of my sunlight.’

Chegory took the lunch pails back to the lunch pail stand, where they would remain until the butcher’s boy who brought the Crab’s daily meal to Jod refilled them on the morrow. Then Chegory washed his hands in a free-flowing fountain. Then he dressed for lunch.

To work in the blazing sun Chegory wore a loincloth and boots. An odd combination but one appropriate to his job, since he was often putting his toes in danger by sledgehammering rocks. For lunch, he put a light knee-length robe over his loincloth. Later in the day, when it was time to leave Jod, he would change into his evening wear, which was long lightweight linen trousers and a lightweight longsleeved shirt, both worn primarily as a defence against night’s mosquitoes.

This history has concerns weightier than fashions to deal with but those who have an interest in such things will note that this was fairly standard wear for males of the lower classes on Untunchilamon, except that most would go barefoot or wear sandals rather than encumbering themselves with boots. Lower-class females, however, would wear trousers and shirt exclusively, regardless of the time of day. People of a higher station, such as Ivan Pokrov or Artemis Ingalawa, would tend to wear ankle-length robes at all times, while sorcerers would never be seen dead or alive in anything other than long, flowing silken robes most richly embroidered.

Thus clothing.

When Chegory had washed his hands and had dressed for lunch he entered the white marble building which housed the Analytical Institute. There the windchimes sang:

Tangle tongle schtingle schtong...

It was the season of Fistavlir, the Long Dry. Yet even so, there was just enough wind to idle the chimes into music.

Meanwhile, back on the mainland - but you have guessed already. Of course. The conjurer Odolo, Official Keeper of the Imperial Sceptre, was in the treasury. And had found the imperial sceptre lying on the floor where the hand of a thief had discarded it. And Odolo’s heart was hammering, for the wishstone, priceless ornament of that sceptre, was gone!

By the time Chegory Guy was ready to sit down to his own lunch on the island of Jod, Odolo had already raised the alarm, and troops were already beginning the search for the guilty - or for scapegoats. But Chegory knew nothing of that, therefore his appetite for his lunch was entirely unspoiled. He was feeling hungry, relaxed and tolerably happy as he strode into the formal dining room.

The usual company was there, politely waiting for Chegory to enter before they seated themselves. There was the olive-skinned Ivan Pokrov, head of the Analytical Institute and master of the Analytical Engine. The Ashdan mathematician Artemis Ingalawa, who had been labouring as usual to develop algorithms for the use of the aforesaid engine. Olivia Qasaba, who had worked all morning in the Dromdanjerie before making her way to Jod. Last but not least, Chegory’s coeval Ox No Zan, the foreign student who had come all the way from Babrika to study under Ivan Pokrov. Today young No was looking decidedly miserable because he had an appointment that afternoon with Doctor Death the dentist.

As Chegory entered the room there was a scraping of chairs as these habitual dinner companions seated themselves. All but Ingalawa, who had one thing she had to do before she relaxed.

‘What’s for lunch?’ said Chegory.

‘Sea slugs,’ said Olivia.

‘Oh, good,’ said Chegory, with predictable enthusiasm.

‘And flying fish,’ said Olivia.

‘Better still!’ said Chegory, pulling out a chair as if to sit.

‘Hands!’ said Ingalawa.

This hand-check was the one duty restraining her from relaxation. She took it very seriously indeed.

Reluctantly Chegory extended his paws.

‘I did wash them,’ he said. ‘Right after I fed the Hermit Crab. I gave them a good wash.’

‘They’re filthy!’ said Ingalawa. ‘Look! Black gunge under the nails!’

Chegory blushed so fiercely that the flush was visible even though he was redskinned to start with.