Johannes Cabal the Necromancer

“I understand.”

“Excellent. So what I propose is that you must replace your soul in my little collection … ”

“You just want another soul?”

“… a hundred times over.”

“A hundred?” The number staggered Cabal. “A hundred? What do you take me for, a mass murderer?”

“You’re not listening, Johannes. I want souls, not carcasses. Not dead. Damned. Signed, sealed, and delivered. I’ll provide the forms, and the signatures don’t even have to be in blood. Although it would be nice if somebody made the effort now and then.”

Cabal looked at the floor, thinking deeply. After a minute’s consideration, he grudgingly said, “I suppose it may be possible …”

“And you’ve got a year to do it in.”

Behind his glasses, Cabal’s eyes narrowed. “Are you insane? A year? It can’t be done.”

“Oh, come, now, Johannes. A bit of that silver tongue of yours and people won’t be able to sign up for damnation fast enough. Those flashing social skills that you’ve spent so long honing to a fine edge — ”

“Sarcasm ill becomes you,” said Cabal. “I came here in expectation of dealing with a mature individual. Instead, all I get is petty slights and pointless whimsy. Good day.”

“I suppose I am rather whimsical these days. I’m sorry, Johannes, I didn’t mean to bruise your pride. Really I didn’t,” said Satan with an expression that indicated that he didn’t give a toss for Cabal’s pride one way or the other. “I like you. It takes a lot of courage to come down here when you really don’t need to. Yet. I don’t want you to go away in a huff and think that I didn’t give you a fair hearing. In fact, I will even help you get your hundred souls.”

It’s difficult for a horse’s skull to raise an eyebrow, but one of Ratuth Slabuth’s gaping eye-sockets may have widened slightly.

“Slabuth,” said Satan, “do you still have that jumble box handy?” As the general quickly searched through his intra-dimensional pockets, Satan leaned down and said confidentially, “The general and I were just having a bit of a spring clean. You’d be surprised how much rubbish builds up, and then, before you know it, it has to be sorted out again. No rest for the wicked.”

Ratuth Slabuth produced a battered tea chest from somewhere and passed it to his master. Satan went through it, sighing.

“No. No. No. Why did we ever give half of this nonsense room? No.” Then he pulled a bundle of files from the box and studied the label on the first. “Dear me, I’d forgotten all about these. One of these would be ideal.”

“What are they?” asked Cabal, interested despite himself.

“Do you enjoy going to fairs, Johannes?”

“No.”

“Then these will be ideal. They’re fairs, carnivals, amusement parks, and the like. I’ve had a hand in quite a few over the years. Absolutely splendid, they are. People looking for a good time drop their guard, you see. Then in you dart and you’ve got ’em. Splendid. Not so popular these days, unfortunately, but you can’t beat them for style.” He had opened the first file and was reading the notes inside. “Cougar and Dark’s Carnival. Regrettably, no. That one’s been wound up.” He dropped it back into the box and studied the next. “Brown’s Carnival, ‘Doctor Brown of World Renown.’ Whatever happened to that? Whatever happened to him?” He read a little further. “Oh dear. How unpleasant.”

“You’re doing a very poor job of engaging my enthusiasm,” said Cabal.

Satan wasn’t listening; he was already on to the next file. “Dr. Diabolo’s Torture Garden.” He smiled, evidently proud. “Terrific success. We’re franchising that.”

This seemed like a positive development to Cabal. “So — will I …?”

“No,” said Satan, “you will not. That would be far too easy. This is meant to represent a challenge, Johannes, not a cakewalk.” He dropped the file back into the box. This left him with one last set of papers. He took the top sheet and read out loud.

“ Pre-production schedule. ‘Carnival of Discord’ Project.” He flicked through some other sheets. “Proposed by Leviathan, seconded by Balberith. That’s a novelty, eh, Slabuth? First time he’s ever agreed with anything. Oh, here’s why. Function: to tempt to contentiousness, to blasphemy, argumentation, and murder. Typical, only Balberith would think that people want to go to the carnival to have a good bicker, spit on a Bible, and then kill each other. No wonder it got shelved. Still, the rest of the proposal has Leviathan’s paw prints all over it. Very professional indeed. With the right man at the helm, this could be a regular little soul-stealer.” He looked down at Cabal. “What do you think, Johannes? Do you think you could be the right man?”

“I am not notably light-hearted …” Cabal started.

“Gosh, really?” said Satan with total innocence.

“… I have no grasp of what is involved in this ‘carnival’ business, and I am hardly gregarious. Frankly, I don’t think your challenge is entirely fair.”

There was silence for a long moment.

Satan’s periods of good nature — in common with many managerial types — lasted precisely up until the moment he was challenged. He scowled monstrously, the smile falling from his face like a greased pig off a church roof. Quickly, over a period of seconds, the lava lake cooled. The glowing red rock turned dirty grey and then black. It was getting distinctly colder. Frost started to appear on the stone walls.

“ ‘Not entirely fair,’ ” repeated Satan, all trace of jovial hail-fellow-well-met gone. “ ‘Not entirely fair’?” His voice became that of the inferno: a rushing, booming howl of icy evil that flew around the great cavern, as swift and cold as the Wendigo on skates. “I am Satan, also called Lucifer the Light Bearer…”

Cabal winced. What was it about devils that they always had to give you their whole family history?

“I was cast down from the presence of God himself into this dark, sulphurous pit and condemned to spend eternity here — ”

“Have you tried saying sorry?” interrupted Cabal.

“No, I haven’t! I was sent down for a sin of pride. It rather undermines my position if I say ‘sorry’!”

“I have my pride, too. Yet you insist on sending me off on a ridiculous errand posing as some sort of showman. Where’s the justice in that?”

Satan leaned back in his throne, and his voice dropped to the low tone of somebody who is about to abort an interview. “Look up ‘Satan’ in a thesaurus at some point, mortal. You’ll find terms like ‘elemental evil,’ ‘wickedness incarnate,’ and ‘the begetter of sins.’ If you find ‘nice chap,’ ‘good bloke,’ and ‘the embodiment of fairness,’ then I would suggest you buy a new one. Do you accept the deal?”

Cabal considered. “One hundred souls?”

“Yes.”

“One year? Until the midnight of the next Walpurgisnacht?”

Satan groaned. “Oh, it’s not Walpurgisnacht, is it? I knew I’d forgotten something. I’m supposed to be abroad, cavorting with witches.” He curled his lip truculently. “I really can’t be bothered this year; I’ll let the avatars deal with it. So — you were saying? Oh, yes. Next Walpurgisnacht midnight, yes.”

“I get the carnival to help me?”

“Just so.”

“What if I fail?”

“I don’t care very much. I suppose I could” — he looked about for inspiration — “take your life. That seems fair enough. By my standards.” Cabal looked dubious. “It’s the only deal you’re going to get, Johannes Cabal. Take it or leave it.”

The frost was gently melting from the frozen lake as it started to warm up again.

Cabal looked around, questing for his decision. If he didn’t take the wager, his researches were useless. Worse yet, if by some fluke he did succeed in them despite the lack of a soul, they would be pointless. If he took the wager and failed, then he would end up in this fatuous medieval monk’s idea of eternal torment.

He clicked his tongue. No choice at all, then.

He nodded. “I accept your offer.”

He had no concept of why people might want to waste their time and money at a carnival when they could be doing something important, but he was sure that as soon as he applied himself he might be able to think down to