‘This but tells you to hand us a summons to compel our appearance in court. Give it! Then get out!’
The captain was disappointed. By documentary intimidation he had hoped to extort a bribe from a fool illiterate, but found himself up against a legal expert of sorts. Reluctantly, the captain handed over the summons, which was but a grubby piece of ricepaper ordering Chegory and Uckermark to appear at a depositions hearing at the palace that same afternoon. The conjuror Odolo was going on trial, and the authorities wanted these two to evidence against him.
The captain turned to go.
‘Um, ah, wait a moment!’ said Chegory. ‘How did you know to find me here?’
The captain did not deign to answer. Instead he marched his soldiers away.
‘He knows because the whole palace knows you’re here,’ said Uckermark. ‘I told you so before. Now do you believe me? Since Justina’s favoured you with her attentions you’re famous, at least in the palace.’
‘Oh,’ said Chegory. ‘I thought I was, uh, safe. From soldiers. From Varazchavardan.’
‘Relax!’ said Uckermark. ‘Don’t worry! If Varazchavardan wanted you he’d have claimed your head already.’ Then, as Yilda made as if to remove the smoke pots, he said to her: ‘Leave the pots. We’ll have the door open for a bit.’
‘These are dangerous times,’ said Log Jaris, emerging from the shadows. ‘Today’s no day for open doors.’
‘The way you speak you’d think we were knee-deep in snow,’ said Uckermark. ‘Don’t you feel the heat or what? I’m close to death as it is. The hell with the danger. We’ll leave the door open. If we get but nine tenths of a miracle we might get a litde breeze. Some ventilation. Lest I die!’
‘If you’re worried about death then start worrying about this depositions hearing,’ said Log Jaris. ‘And quickly! This is dangerous!’
‘Odolo knows nothing of us,’ said Uckermark as he retreated back inside leaving the smoke pots to guard the open doorway against flies. ‘He knows nothing of the wishstone or the thieving of such, and nothing of the Calligrapher’s Union or our hand in the organisation of the same.’
‘So far, so far,’ said Log Jaris. ‘But his lawyers will start digging for dirt as soon as we’re known to be witnessing against him. We’ve much to fear from such investigation.’
‘Shall we run?’ said Chegory.
But even as he said it he knew running was no answer. After all, where could they go? He had thought through all the options plenty of times. Hide Downstairs? Or flee the city? If they fled now, they could not depart by sea. Not in the season of Fistavlir. So they would have to go inland.
To Zazazolzodanzarzakazolabrik.
Zazazolzodanzarzakazolabrik, also known as the Scrag-lands, the Wastes, the Scorpion Desert — or Zolabrik for short. A deathscape of sundrought and rupture, of upthrust pinnacles and rotten rock, of dread ruins undermined by sea-flooded tunnels infested by huge sea scorpions, sea centipedes and monsters yet worse. Chegory’s nightmare was to flee to that wilderness where survival’s exigencies would force him to seek refuge with Impala Guy, his father — Jal Japone’s stillmaster. Surely he would then be doomed to become another alcoholic Ebrell Islander, living as a hunted criminal in conditions of the utmost depravity.
He said as much to Uckermark.
The corpse master laughed.
‘So you wish to live innocent, do you? Then you chose the wrong world for your birth. But never mind. I’ve no thoughts of flight to the Wastes. Yes, a depositions hearing means danger — but running means more danger yet.’
Then discussion ended, even though Chegory had a thousand doubts and questions, for Uckermark was determined to devote himself to the business of lunch. They dined on some splendiferous fish, some magnanimous coconuts, some utilitarian water and some nuts pragmatic. With food in his belly, Chegory started to feel better. Until, as he was sitting back in his chair peeling a piece of sugarcane, he got one of the larger shocks of his life.
What caused it?
The advent of a dragon!
Chegory first espied the dragon when it was sitting atop a gaunt-grinning skull. It was a tiny dragon. Naught but the length of his finger. A hallucination, surely. A flashback caused by zen. Chegory fumbled his sugarcane on to the table, for his sweat-slippery fingers could hold it no longer.
‘What is it?’ said Yilda, seeing his concern.
‘It’s a dragon,’ said Uckermark, seeing where Chegory was looking.
The corpse master idly lobbed a mango at the miniature monster. The mango missed. Splattered. Log Jaris picked up a piece of clean-scraped coconut shell and flicked it across the room. But his missile also missed. Then the two men began to compete, disposing of the remains of their luncheon in a quick-fire fusillade. The dragon took evasive action. The two ex-pirates rose to the challenge.
Thus it was that when Artemis Ingalawa entered the corpse shop she came upon a truly manic scene. An angry, irritated dragon was slip-sliding through the air as it tried to simultaneously attack its persecutors and evade a barrage of plates, pots, skulls and slops.
'Stop that!' said Ingalawa.
Her sharp command quelled the riot on the instant. The last missiles clattered against the wall. The dragon, seizing its opportunity, hurded toward Log Jaris. Then thought better of it, veered away, and alighted atop Ingalawa’s head. She brushed it away with an irritated hand. The dragon took to the air again. Ingalawa turned the full force of her fury on Chegory Guy.
‘Chegory Guy’’ said she. ‘What are you doing here?’
“You — you have a dragon on your head,’ said Chegory, for the dragon had resettled atop the Ashdan mathematician.
'That doesn’t answer my question,’ said Ingalawa curtly, ignoring the dragon as she tried to stare down the delinquent Chegory Guy.
The hair-riding dragon farted, emitting a tiny burst of steam from its rear end. Chegory, unable to help himself, broke into hysterical laughter. Ingalawa was furious. She swept the dragon from its perch. It tumbled into the air, recovered itself, then flew out of the corpse shop. In the street outside, somebody screamed.
Chegory knew that scream.
It was Olivia’s scream.
On the instant, his laughter ceased. He got to his feet and charged outside, snatching up a corpse hook as he ran. He had visions of the dragon, expanded by magic to gigantic size, attacking his darling Olivia in the street. But when he leapt through the billowing fumes from the smoke pots and gained the street, there was no monster to be seen. Only Olivia herself, still shaking from shock. On seeing the tiny dragon, she had momentarily thought herself insane.
There are, after all, no dragons so small which fly. The fabled land dragons of Argan are much larger even when fresh-hatched from the egg. As for the imperial dragons of Yestron, these grow to the size of dogs before they became aviators, while sea dragons never fly at all.
Wordlessly, Olivia fell into Chegory’s arms. Considering the length of time the Ebrell Islander had spent in the corpse shop it is fortunate indeed that the fumes from the smoke pots subdued all other odours.
Chegory and his true love clung to each other in the street until Ingalawa came up behind them.
‘Break it up, children!’ she said.
From the way she spoke, it was clear she was still angry.
‘Okay,’ said Chegory, breaking it up. Then, to Olivia, who was still tearful: ‘Come inside. Come in, and I’ll get you a cup of water.’
So in they went. But as soon as the two Ashdan females entered the corpse shop Chegory knew he had made a dreadful mistake, for Olivia’s wide-wrenched mouth and startled eyes betrayed both shock and disgust. Said the eyes: in all my life this is the very worst place in which I have ever been, a veritable soulhell. Said the eyes, with eloquence: what has my poor Chegory come to? How did he manage to fall so far so fast? Said the mouth: I’m going to be sick.
Worse, when Chegory handed Olivia some water, she could not drink it. She gagged. The cup slipped from her hand. She fled. Chegory pursued her outside, and was comforting her still when Log Jaris lumbered into the
