‘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 into 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.’
