Johannes Cabal the Necromancer

gave Horst a sidelong glance to see if he’d speak to the crowd; he was so much better at it. Horst returned his glance, crossed his arms, and looked off into the middle distance. Fine, thought Cabal, I’ll do this myself.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a clear, resonant voice, “I am Johannes Cabal of the Cabal Brothers Travelling Carnival. This” — he indicated his brother, who couldn’t resist bowing very slightly — “is my brother, Horst. We have come here, to your pleasant town of Penlow on Thurse, to — ”

“Why have you come here?” asked a middle-aged man. He caught Cabal’s eye, and Cabal had an uncomfortable feeling of imminent trouble.

“To bring you the best in wonder, excitement, and family entertainment,” Cabal continued. “We have stalls to test the keenness of your eye and the sharpness of your reflexes, sideshows to educate and astound.”

“You’ve already done enough to astound this town,” said the man. There was a mutter of agreement.

Cabal looked hard at him. The man wore a dark-grey trilby that was not new, but clearly well looked after. His overcoat showed the same signs of attention, his trousers sported a sharp crease, and his shoes were polished. His dark hair was greying at the temples, and he had a very sensible moustache, carefully maintained. Cabal would have guessed that he was ex-military — he certainly had the air of authority of a commissioned officer, a company or field rank like captain or major. There was a watchfulness in his eyes, though, that was not the product of a life of honest soldiering. Cabal’s misgivings deepened. “And whom do I have the plea sure of addressing?” he asked with politeness, but not enough warmth to thaw a crystal of helium.

“My name’s Frank Barrow.”

“Well, Frank — ”

“You can call me Mr. Barrow.”

Cabal imagined Barrow upside down in a rendering vat and controlled his temper. “Well, Mr. Barrow, I’m glad to know that our little carnival has made something of a sensation here already.” The two men looked at each other, looks that were on the very borderlands of glares. “How precisely did we do that?”

“This place,” said Barrow, and jerked his thumb at the station.

“And a fine station it is, too,” replied Cabal. He wasn’t quite sure where this was going, but it never hurt to flatter the yokels as to how marvellous the lean-to cattlesheds they called their town were. That said, he was quietly surprised by how spick-and-span the station looked. It was as if it had only been built today.

“That’s as may be. The point is, it wasn’t here yesterday.” There were a lot of agreeing noises and nodding. Cabal fondly hoped he’d misheard.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said this time yesterday this place was a pile of burnt-out rubble, this line hadn’t seen sleepers or rails in donkey’s years, and he” — Barrow pointed at the stationmaster, who smiled and waved — “was long dead and buried. Now, what I want to know, and I would guess all these people here would like to know, is how that can be.” They all looked at Cabal expectantly.

Cabal smiled absently, his brain whirring. This was none of his doing, but why would they believe that? No line? How could their arrival have been planned, in that case? Penlow on Thurse was clearly marked on the map as an operational station. His smile never wavered as the seconds drew out. He could feel his teeth beginning to dry. There was a cough among his audience to remind him that they were waiting. Eyes on him. He couldn’t think. Penlow was their last possible stop, their time was almost gone. He had to find two souls here, and now the whole place was set against him. A bead of sweat was forming on his right temple; he could feel it quite distinctly. He needed to think of a reason for the odd goings-on. Now. Right now. Right this instant … now. The instant fled by and he still couldn’t think of anything. He knew damn well who was behind this. Look out for dirty tricks? The dirty deed had been done before they ever got here. He wondered if he could save the box of contracts if it became necessary to leave hastily, pursued by a torch-bearing mob.

“Torch-bearing mobs move surprisingly quickly,” he said out loud. They looked at him oddly. Marvellous, he thought. Why not put ideas in their heads?

“What my brother means is that, only a few months ago, we made a serious enemy.” Horst’s measured, reassuring tones immediately started to weave their own brand of magic. People always wanted to hear what he had to say. “It would seem that he has reached here before us and intends us to be besmirched by the same necromantic brush as himself, the cur. This, I think, would be the epitome of ironic revenge to his corrupt and diabolical soul.”

There was some confused murmuring from the crowd. “What are you talking about, son?” asked Barrow.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you my brother, Johannes Cabal — Vanquisher.” There was a definite capital “V” there. “Vanquisher of the foul wizard Rufus Maleficarus!” There was a gratifying intake of breath. Rufus had long been a darling of the tattier newspapers.

Even Barrow seemed to have heard of him. “Just a minute,” said Barrow. “I thought Maleficarus was dead?”

“Slain by my brother’s own hand in a deadly duel.”

“So how’s he doing all this business here if he’s dead?”

A reasonable question, but Horst had always got by in life on I per cent perspiration, 99 inspiration. “My dear sir, what barrier is death to a necromancer?” The gratifying intake of breath was now released as a hateful hiss. Suddenly Cabal feared Horst was going to expose him. He’d been so distant recently.

“Rufus Maleficarus was an evil man. Now it would appear that his malign influence extends from beyond the grave. When we leave here, we shall postpone the rest of our busy schedule to go back to where he hangs from a gibbet and burn his corpse, as we should have done in the first place. Not even a necromancer can survive the purifying flame.” There were sage nods from the sort of people in the crowd who always nod sagely when somebody else says something clever.

Barrow had an eyebrow cocked as he appraised this intelligence. He wasn’t about to fall into the trap that Horst had set. That was left to another. “Why didn’t you burn him while you had the chance, eh?” asked Joe Carlton, who could always be relied on to ask the obvious.

Horst spread his hands in supplication. “We had the torches lit when along came Maleficarus’ mother.” He adopted a reedy, aged voice. “‘Please don’t burn my boy,’ she said. ‘He’s been very wicked, I know, but he’s my own flesh and blood. I … I don’t think I could bear it if you burnt him.’ Well, I was all ready to burn the evil sod anyway when Johannes, my brother, held back my arm and said, ‘No, Horst. He may have been a necromancer, a murderer, and a thrice-dyed villain, but he was still this woman’s son. She’s suffered enough. More than enough. Leave him for the crows and let us be on our way’” Cabal looked at his feet with pure, disbelieving embarrassment. Luckily, it was close enough to humility to pass. “So we left poor old Mrs. Maleficarus sobbing by the feet of her own little Rufus,” continued Horst.

“Please stop,” whispered Cabal. “This is killing me with humiliation.”

“You think I should skip the bit where you run back and press the whole month’s takings on her? If you insist,” whispered Horst. Then, louder, “So, if our crime is that my brother could not bring himself to break the heart of a poor widow any more than her evil son had done, then we plead guilty.” He took off his hat and hung his head penitently. There was a pause. Then the crowd went mad.

Cabal was bundled up to shoulder height and paraded up and down the platform several times by jubilant supporters. From a harbinger of doom he had become a conquering hero with a heart of gold, in the space of a few mendacious sentences. Such, he mused, is the fickleness of the mob. Horst should run a newspaper.

After he had worked up a hand full of cramp signing autographs, Cabal happened to notice Barrow standing to one side, arms crossed. Watching him. It seemed that at least one person had proved resistant to Horst’s public-relations exercise.

“You don’t seem impressed,” said Cabal. “Why should that be? Didn’t you hear my brother? I’m a hero.”

“I don’t know what you are,” said Barrow. “Hero? I wouldn’t know. Did you kill Maleficarus?”

“Yes,” said Cabal. He looked around to make sure nobody was eavesdropping. “Yes, I killed him. I shot him three times.”

“Why?”

“Why did I shoot him, or why did I shoot him three times? I shot him three times to make sure he died. I killed him because he was in the way.”

“In your way.”