‘Uh, all right. I swear by — by my own honour! How’s that? And, uh, the Orgy God. Deity of the Ebrells! And, oh, I’ll think of something.’
Chegory in fact thought of many more things to swear by as Uckermark chiselled away scales, cut off the dragon’s head, recovered the wishstone then meticulously performed the rest of the dissection.
Meantime, Uckermark brooded about what he had done. If truth be told, the corpse master had snatched up the wishstone in the heat of the moment without any forethought whatsoever. He had been commanded by an urgent greed, a thoughtless grasping lust for wealth. It was a witless thing to do. Stupid, dangerous and foolhardy. It placed him in great danger. Still, Uckermark was a human being, and had as much capacity for self-delusion as did young Chegory. So by now he had constructed an elaborate belief structure to justify his actions — and had persuaded himself that he had thought the whole thing out before he acted.
When the Calligrapher’s Union and its membership had been endangered by the general searches and wholesale arrests which had been turning Injiltaprajura upside down, then Uckermark’s first thought had been to hunt down the conspirators who had stolen the wishstone and to yield up both those thieves and the precious bauble itself to the Empress.
That he had done.
Or, to give to this historical account that meticulous precision which the rendition of fact demands, Log Jaris had done as much after detailed consultation with Uckermark. This, together with the events which had taken place at the banquet, had (or so Uckermark put it to himself) the following consequences:
1. The original thieves were known to law and authority to have been uitlander pirates, the Malud marauders Al-ran Lars, Arnaut and Tolon.
2. The only people presently under suspicion with regard to the loss of the wishstone were those who had been at the banquet.
3. Uckermark and Chegory were most unlikely to be under any such suspicion for they had been searched and found to be innocent of theft. Log Jaris, presently under temporary detention at the palace along with most of the other guests from the banquet, would be found equally innocent.
Under these circumstances, Uckermark told himself it was safe to retain possession of the wishstone. He thought it most likely that the searchers would concentrate on the pursuit of the Malud marauders, who had fled the palace during the general confusion. He neglected to remind himself that there was every chance that some clear- minded logician would eventually connect the disappearance of the wishstone with the removal of the dragon from the pink palace. He told himself he was right to take it because:
1. The wishstone was worth a fortune, as agents at the embassy maintained by the rulers of Parengarenga in Ashmolea were permanendy prepared to pay out that fortune for its purchase, no questions asked.
2. He had long lusted for possession of the wishstone since it was the allure of that bauble which had drawn him to Untunchilamon in the first place.
3. Since Aldarch III was almost certain to conquer Yestron and to turn his attentions to Untunchilamon thereafter, all sane people were thinking of quitting the island, and it would be foolish to leave empty-handed.
As for Chegory Guy, he was just glad he had escaped from the palace with his life and his virginity intact. By now he had so much else to worry about that he frankly did not care who gained or retained possession of the wishstone. Thus he swore himself to secrecy in the matter, thinking his involvement in this criminal matter to be but a trifle compared to some of the other things he had on his plate.
Elsewhere, at the Temple of Torture in Goldhammer Rise which was serving as a detention centre, all prisoners were being released. The Empress Justina had bethought herself of their plight, and, before she allowed herself to sleep, had given orders that they be liberated immediately. Though the wishstone was missing again, all in detention were automatically free of suspicion since the true original thieves had been identified.
Thus it was that Artemis Ingalawa, her niece Olivia Qasaba and her employer Ivan Pokrov were released and made their way through the dark of bardardornootha to the Dromdanjerie. There they hammered on the door until sleepers awoke within and they were admitted.
Shortly they were in conversation with a bleary-eyed Jon Qasaba.
‘Where’s Chegory?’ said Olivia.
‘I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him,’ said her father. ‘Wasn’t he with you?’
‘He was, he was, but he got taken away to the palace.’
‘Well,’ said her father, ‘there’s been all kind of goings on at the palace. Riots, mutiny, insurrection, attempted revolution and more. Not that anyone’s been killed, or not that I’ve heard. But you never know.’
Injiltaprajura saw nothing of Shabble as istarlat’s shadows shortened toward noon. Shabble was still missing as the shadows of salahanthara lengthened toward sunset. Yet all that time the demon of Jod was furiously busy.
Doing what, you ask?
The answer is simple:
Falling.
From morn to noon fell Shabble, from noon to dewy eve — a summer’s day; and with the setting sun dropped from the zenith like a falling star. Steam in whispers vapoured into shreds as deep to the seas drove Shabble, descending fathoms five and full, drawn down to the depths where the moray weaves in coils than cobra greater, then drawn far deeper, down to the utter dark, the siltworm cold, the black of blindness enfolding.
Then Shabble uprose and surfaced.
Hovered briefly, then was gone, making for Injiltaprajura — leaving the dark seas rocking, rocking endlessly toward the shore.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
On the day of Shabble’s fall from the heavens, young Chegory' Guy spent much of the morning sleeping on Uckermark’s premises. Not that he slept well: he kept waking because of the exhausdng heat. Angry flies con- standy battered against frustrating gauze, ever intent on breaking through the windows to feast on the meat within. The oppressive stench of ruptured organs plagued both Chegory’s sleep and his waking moments.
At first, he shared the one bed with Uckermark and Yilda, but when the noon bells woke him he found both gone. He rolled over and did his best to get back to sleep — as if sleep could have cured his problems. At last the sun fell, the bat bells rang out to announce the end of salahanthara and the start of undokondra, and Chegory reluctantly roused himself from the bed. He was alive. That was something. But for how long would he stay alive? Did Uckermark mean to kill him, or what?
‘Gods,’ muttered Chegory. ‘What a mess.’
The day before yesterday was but a distant dream. Then, all unawares of the disasters ahead, Chegory had been quietly going about his business on the island ofjod. Raking gravel, chipping boulders, recovering rocks from the kitchen’s grease trap, then studying mathematics in the afternoon. It seemed more than a lifetime ago. No wonder he felt lightheaded, disorientated, frazzled!
With some reluctance Chegory went downstairs and there found Yilda busy preparing a meal and Uckermark deep in conversation with one of the Ngati Moana, a ferociously tattooed warrior with a pounamu pendant suspended from each ear. Chegory guessed at once — and he guessed correctly — that Uckermark was negotiating for a passage out of Untunchilamon. The corpse master intended to make his escape from Justina’s realm on one of the canoes of the Ngati Moana.
‘Who’s this?’ said the Ngati Moana warrior in the fluent Janjuladoola of an expert linguist.
‘Ballast,’ said Uckermark.
In that single word the corpse master told the warrior Chegory was someone of no account who could be written off if the need arose. He also told Chegory that he would be joining the flight from Untunchilamon by canoe.
Chegory groaned.
Not inwardly but outwardly.
‘I wouldn’t take that attitude if I were you, boy,’ said Uckermark. ‘Most men in my position would have mastered your murder by now.’
