World Beyond can properly be conveyed in the language of the World of Events. To attempt to express theological truths in the language of barter and commerce is ultimately futile. Or, at the least, grossly unsatisfactory. It is like trying to build a model of Time out of fishbones. Like endeavouring to express the satisfactions of the organism in an accountant’s arithmetic. Like trying to build a house from a perfume’s aroma, or shape fire out of ice.
‘So now,’ said Chegory, ‘this Binchinminfin’s dead.’
‘Wrong!’ said Odolo.
‘But,’ protested Chegory, ‘you said Varazchavardan got the better of Binchinminfin.’
‘In combat, yes,’ said Odolo. ‘Varazchavardan won the battle of transformations. But Binchinminfin defeated him nevertheless. For, when Varazchavardan tried to destroy my body with his claw of iron, Binchinminfin leapt from my body to Varazchavardan’s.’
‘But you said a demon was already in possession of Varazchavardan,’ objected Pokrov.
‘A demon has neither weight nor extent nor substance,’ said Odolo. ‘An infinite number can therefore dance on the head of a pin. Or contend for dominance within a single mind.’
‘So that’s why Varazchavardan collapsed,’ said Uckermark, who had been notably silent till then. ‘Because two demons were at war in his head.’
‘No,’ said Odolo. ‘It is the mere act of possession which causes unconsciousness. The demon’s presence disorders the mind, which takes time to recover itself.’
‘So which demon now rules Varazchavardan?’ said Chegory. ‘His own, or this Binchinminfin?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ said Odolo. ‘When Varazchavardan recovers consciousness, either he will be himself, or Binchinminfin will be in possession.’
Odolo fell silent.
Chegory, Uckermark and Pokrov watched him, waiting for further revelation.
‘It’s no good looking at me,’ said Odolo. ‘I’ve said my piece. You know as much as I do. What we do now — well, that’s not for me to say.’
‘What we do now is simple,’ said Chegory. ‘We kill Varazchavardan. Whether he’s possessed by a demon or not, he’s our enemy mortal.’
Ivan Pokrov cleared his throat.
‘I think,’ said Pokrov, ‘that rather than rushing off to kill someone, we’d better think this through. While we think, we might as well eat.’
Then Pokrov clapped his hands, calling in his servants. He gave them orders, and soon they returned with food, which was served in bowls decorated with floral patterns of the lightest blue. Each bowl had rice-shaped pieces of white porcelain incorporated into its thin sides.
Usually, Chegory would have worried in case his thick and hefty hands broke something. But tonight he didn’t give it a thought. He was hungry, and there was excellent provender in the bowls. Olives. Pieces of smoked snake meat. Fresh fried octopus. Roast crickets. Giant chameleons stuffed with bacon. Pickled cockroaches. Mangos. Chunks of coconut. Thin-sliced disks of pineapple golden.
Thus, though his true love Olivia languished in a demon’s grasp, Chegory ate greedily. His earlier loss of appetite had passed entirely. He was, after all, an Ebrell Islander, and it takes more than a coup, a kidnapping and a national disaster to upset an Ebby’s appetite permanently.
While Chegory ate, the others thought, but at meal’s end they were none the wiser.
‘We lack sufficient data for precise analysis,’ said Ivan Pokrov. ‘We must send a mission to the mainland, if only to gather additional data.’
‘No,’ said Chegory flatly. ‘We’ll go to the city to kill V arazchavardan. ’
Everyone looked at him. A declaration of intent to murder had been Chegory’s first reaction to the situation. Now, after enjoying a good meal and thinking about it, his intent was exactly the same. Just what one would expect from an Ebrell Islander! No attempt to dialogue the situation. No thoughts of compromise or negotiation. No suggestion of sending an embassy of sorts to talk things through with their enemy. No, none of that. Just an immediate vote for murder.
This is hardly surprising, for on the Ebrells the typical instruments of conflict resolution tend to be edged weapons. Though Chegory had been born and raised on Untunchilamon, he had nevertheless been raised in the cultural tradition of the Ebrells.
What is surprising is that after some discussion, all agreed Chegory’s plan to be sound, reasonable and rational. Odolo, graced with intimate acquaintance with Binchinminfin, thought it an excellent idea. Uckermark, for his part, could certainly think of nothing better. Even Ivan Pokrov, that determined student of the rational, could devise no scheme more sophisticated.
‘But,’ said Ivan Pokrov, ‘let’s not risk our own lives in the attempt.’
‘Nobody else is likely to help us,’ said Uckermark.
‘Oh, I beg to differ,’ said Pokrov. ‘I can think of one group of people who might be very willing to help.’
He explained.
‘That’s too dangerous!’ said Odolo. ‘They might prove enemies rather than friends!’
‘You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,’ said Uckermark.
‘I don’t want to,’ said Odolo.
He was in no state for heroics. He was bruised, battered and exhausted in both body and psyche.
‘Then stay here,’ said Pokrov, ‘and the rest of us will go.’ ‘You?’ said Chegory. ‘You’ll come with us?’
‘To help negotiate with our intended friends,’ said Pokrov. ‘And… and perhaps to see this demon-thing. My curiosity, you see, is excited.’
Thus it was decided. Uckermark, Ivan Pokrov and Chegory Guy would venture to Injiltaprajura to seek help for a war against Varazchavardan. Soon, suitably equipped with weapons, they were on their way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Jod’s heroes sweated through the hot night to Uckermark’s corpse shop where Yilda and Log Jaris greeted them with urgent demands for information. After hearing lengthy explanations, all voiced at something close to a shout as a concession to Yilda’s deafness, Log Jaris declared that he would join the expedition to the pink palace. ‘And I!’ said Yilda. But her mate forbade it, thus precipitating a row. Thanks to the support of all the males present, Uckermark triumphed over his woman in argument — a rare occurrence indeed.
Then the corpse master extracted a bottle of a queer purple fluid from a secret cabinet. It glowed in the candlelight with an evil, eldritch phosphorescence. It was Dragonfire, a form of that carcinogenic poison known as alcohol, and it was surpassed in potency only by the firewater of the Ebrell Islands. Rough stuff indeed!
‘This should sweeten the temper of our demon-dealing friends,’ said Uckermark.
As gifts go, this one was truly extravagant, for the glass bottle alone was worth more than most people earnt in a month. But they had to do everything possible to win the wonderworkers as allies in their war against Varazchavardan. The sorcerers must be persuaded that, the Master of Law was indeed possessed by the demon Binchinminfin, and must therefore be destroyed to force the delinquent demon back to the World Beyond.
Forth went the heroes, forth through the streets of night where massive bloodclot shadows loomed in every doorway. The night was hot and humid — and preternaturally peaceful. Shuttered silence guarded many a window which would usually have been alive with lamplight and laughter.
All Injiltaprajura knew that something untoward was going on and the city had battened down as if to meet a hurricane.
Our heroes quested through this ominous atmosphere to the Cabal House: and found it closed against them. A mirbane balefire was burning bright atop the building, summoning all the sorcerers of Injiltaprajura to ingather. Judging by the raucous uproar coming from the upper rooms, those worthies had ingathered indeed.
‘It sounds like a party,’ said Uckermark as he knocked on the door.
There was no response, so Uckermark used his boot. The door hummed, glowed yellow, belched sulphur, then darkened to silence. He kicked again. This time the door maintained a stolid impassivity. As the corpse master attacked the door yet again, Log Jaris turned and walked away.
'Where are you going?’ said Chegory in bewilderment.
