Johannes Cabal the Necromancer

During the days, Cabal had implemented them. Sometimes he might make changes to the commission of a task, but never to its purpose. He had to trust Horst implicitly. At first, mindful of squandering away the ball of Satan’s blood resting down in Hell, he’d asked why some decisions had been made the way they had. Why that form of sideshow barker, why this kind of concession, why that sideshow over this? “Well, look at them,” Horst had said, lifting up two signs, one from the “accepted” pile and the other from the “firewood” stack. Cabal looked. One was for Marko the Moulting Man, the other for Layla the Latex Lady.

“They both sound ridiculous beyond words. No, I have no idea why anybody would want to see either.”

“You’re dead right about one of them. Marko here” — Horst had hefted the sign — “is a man with hair that falls out. It doesn’t fall out to order, or leave interesting patterns, or grow back on command. Marko’s only abilities are to bung up plug holes and make himself unpopular in furniture showrooms.” The sign was thrown back in with the firewood. “Layla, on the other hand, is … well …” He had looked closely at his brother and decided he was wasting his time. “People just like that sort of thing. Trust me.”

And Cabal had to. Horst knew what people liked, he always had. He had cut a swathe through the social circuses of school, then university, and then adult life. Men admired him, women adored him, and his younger brother had loathed him. Loathed him for his easy manner, for his extended circle of friends and the utterly, utterly loathsome way that the world behaved as if it really did owe Horst Cabal a living. He changed jobs, even careers, frequently, and it always worked out. His parents made a lot of Horst, who never had to fear that their new son would supplant him in their affections. No chance of that, thought Cabal bitterly. He’d had to work hard for their attention.

“Penny for your thoughts,” said a voice behind him. Cabal turned to find Horst sitting up in his box. The sun had gone down while he had been thinking.

“I was just remembering how much I used to hate you,” he said, and walked back to the desk.

“Honesty. I like that. Usually. I knew you resented me, but hated? Oh, come on, Johannes. That’s strong.”

“Water under the bridge, I believe. May we attend to the matter in hand?” He unfolded a map and indicated a town on it. “Merton Pembersley New Town, our first port of call. We reach there just before dawn. I need to be sure that we can deploy effectively.”

Horst yawned, displaying exaggerated eye-teeth.

“We’ve been through this a thousand times before.”

“Twelve.”

“Whatever. Yes, we can set up in six hours and be ready for sundown easily.” He grinned broadly. “The poor rubes won’t know what hit them.”

On the shelf, the hourglass dribbled sand into the lower bulb. The rolling motion of the train never perturbed the flow so much as an iota.

* * *

The stationmaster looked hard at the train and then harder at Cabal.

“You can’t park that there,” he said finally, and started to walk back to his office. Cabal walked quickly after him.

“Well, we have to stop somewhere. We’ve got a carnival to set up,” he said, and smiled. The stationmaster stopped, saw his expression, and shied away.

“Look, mate, you have to have permissions. You can’t just bung your train up somebody else’s siding and expect to get away with it.”

“Why not? Nobody else is using it.”

“Aaaah, but they might.”

Cabal knew then that he was dealing with the kind of official that he always lost his temper with. He lost his temper.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The grass on that spur is hip-deep. It hasn’t seen a train in years. If you want some sort of, I don’t know, berthing fee or something, say so, but kindly stop being so damnably obtuse.”

“Berthing fees? Are you trying to bribe me?” cried the stationmaster in a manner just a little too melodramatic to be insincere. “I’ve worked for the company man and boy for nigh on thirty years. If you think you can buy off that sort of loyalty for some dirty little bribe, you’ve got another thing coming!” He stormed into his office. Cabal followed him.

“How about a dirty big bribe, then?” he asked experimentally.

“I, sir, am a loyal employee of the company. Take your offensive offers of baksheesh and get out of here! And take that bloody train with you!”

Cabal could tell that subtle diplomacy wasn’t working. The two men glared at each other for a moment, until the stationmaster decided he could do his in comfort and sank into his big leather swivel chair. As he did so, his eyes flickered to a drawer he’d left open in his desk. Cabal saw his expression become momentarily stricken as he quickly slammed the drawer shut. Not quite quickly enough to stop Cabal getting an idea what was in there, though. He drew his smoked-glass spectacles down far enough to let the stationmaster know that he was looking narrowly at him, slid them back into place, turned, and left.

Back at the train, Bones sat waiting on the caboose step.

“Is that guy goin’ be the kind of trouble he looks, chief?” he asked as Cabal approached, stepping easily over the disused railway tracks concealed in the long grass. “You want me and some of the boys maybe pay him a visit, if you know what I mean?”

Cabal looked back at the station over his shoulder as he pulled out his black kid gloves and drew them on. “I really don’t think that will be necessary, Mr. Bones. I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement. The stationmaster has some … interesting magazines in his desk. I think he has an itch that he can’t really scratch.”

Bones rested a bony elbow on a bony knee and placed his bony chin in the bony palm. He hated it when the boss thought he was being clever. “What kind of magazines? Dermatology Today or somethin’?” he asked blandly.

“Not that kind of itch. Get Layla and send her over. And make sure she’s wearing an overcoat.”

“Layla? Rubber girl Layla? For why, boss?”

“She’s going to make him an offer he really can’t refuse,” replied Cabal with a smile so malevolent that Bones was glad he had no hair to stand on end. “Meanwhile,” Cabal continued, “start to unload. We’ll use that meadow over there to set up on.”

“You got permission?”

“I don’t need permission.” Again, the smile. “If anybody complains, send them to me.”

* * *

Somebody did complain: a florid farmer in his fifties who stormed up the steps and into Cabal’s office with some boringly incoherent speech about agriculture and laws of the land. Cabal listened to him attentively, or, more accurately, he watched him attentively; the farmer had an interesting supra-orbital ridge of a type that wasn’t common in humans. Quite unconsciously, Cabal started making a sketch of it while the farmer stormed. When the farmer saw the pencil moving, his fury went up a notch, and he demanded to know what Cabal was scribbling.

“The percentage deal for allowing us to use your land,” said Cabal. “I was thinking of twenty-five per cent.”

“Gross or net?” asked the farmer suspiciously.

“Net.”

“Thirty per cent.”

“Let’s skip the finagling. Twenty-seven.”

“Thirty,” said the farmer, growing enthusiastic.

“But this is fallow land, you said so yourself. You’re not even using it.” The farmer creased his eyes and looked firm. Cabal shrugged in good-natured defeat. “I can see I’m not going to be able to shift you on this. Very well, thirty per cent it is.” He leaned over the table and shook hands with the farmer, who settled himself down into the chair with complacent smugness. Cabal unlocked a drawer in his desk and drew out a densely written contract. “I’m afraid I’ll need your signature. It’s all right,” he said, seeing the farmer’s expression. “The tax man will never