There is the original Enablement, which some call Probability.
Then there are the gods, the creators-of-life, those who shape spheres of existence from raw Probability. Then there are the technicians, those who do but remold that which the gods have created.'
'What of demons?' said Guest. 'And ghosts?'
'They are the creatures of the sub-categories,' said Nol, using one of those airy generalizations which a teacher employs when he is in no mood to plunge into complexities. 'Let us not bother with sub-categories. Let us stick to our main division, which is the Enablement, the gods and the technicians. The Experimenters, then, are a theoretical race of technicians much given to wholesale remolding.'
'And,' said Guest, 'you claim these caverns of Lex Chalis to be a part of their work?'
'I claim nothing,' said Ontario Nol. 'I merely retail the theories of others. Those others claim the very configuration of our world to be the result of a wholesale remolding undertaken by the Experimenters. It is said by these theorists that Lex Chalis is a communicator of sorts – an artefact which the Experimenters once used to communicate from world to world.'
So said Ontario Nol.
But it must be clearly stated that there are well over a thousand different theories which purport to explain Lex Chalis, and that all of these theories are in conflict. The only thing which all theories are agreed upon is that Lex Chalis is a singularly unpleasant place in which to take up residence.
In that singularly unpleasant place, Sken-Pitilkin and his companions passed the winter season, grubbing a living from the seashore and studying the irregular verbs. Yes! Let it be stated as a fact! Before that season had run its course, Guest Gulkan had grown so desperately bored by the tedium of his refugee existence that he had permitted Sken-Pitilkin to tutor him in one or two of the milder of the foreign irregular verbs.
So passed a season of hardship, in which the refugees often Shabble searching the continents for their shadows, interrogating the buttercups of X-zox Kalada and the humming birds in the southern jungles, bathing in the red dust of Dalar ken Halvar or rolling in the snows of Chi'ash-lan Then, in the spring, Sken-Pitilkin at last declared that he was ready to fly them to Drum.
'Will that be any improvement?' said Guest, who knew of Sken-Pitilkin's island only that it was rocky and infested by sea dragons.
'A great improvement,' said Sken-Pitilkin. 'For we will be able to sleep in peace, without alien intrusions vexing our nights.'
'You mean, then,' said Guest, 'that your island has no ghosts.'
'That is not all I meant, but it is part of it,' said Sken-Pitilkin. 'Yes, take it from me, there are no ghosts on Drum.'
That was a lie, for Drum was haunted by a number of ghosts, and Sken-Pitilkin knew at least seven of them by name. But, since their visitations were infrequent, Sken-Pitilkin thought he could get away with this lie.
Then Sod declared that, ghosts or no ghosts, he was in no mood to fly to Drum, and thought it would be far better for them to make for Chi'ash-lan.
'Impossible,' said Sken-Pitilkin flatly. 'For once you have been in Chi'ash-lan for a day or less, the demon Ko will know of it. And once Ko knows of it, then so too will every other such demon, and Shabble may well be in alliance with these demons by now even if Shabble was not in alliance with them before.'
At last, Sod was persuaded – coerced is perhaps a better word for it – into Sken-Pitilkin stickbird. Then Sken-Pitilkin sent this airship whirling skywards, and headed south. Guest Gulkan, who had grim memories of a traumatic journey across the wastewaters of Moana, predicted of a certainty that Sken-Pitilkin would lose them somewhere over the sea. But in this the Weaponmaster was entirely mistaken, for Sken-Pitilkin knew Drum and its surrounding geography to a nicety. Thanks to his intimate knowledge of the area's geography, the wizard had already worked out a failsafe method of finding his way to Drum by air.
The sagacious wizard of Skatzabratzumon flew south, navigating by the sun alone. Since Lex Chalis is barely a hundred leagues north of Argan, Sken-Pitilkin soon picked up the coast of that continent. Then it was a simple matter to continue down the coastline, keeping a lookout to the west.
As Drum lies barely thirty leagues west of Argan, and as it is a considerable island (for an ant must walk for twenty leagues to cross from its northern coast to its southern), the island is easily seen from the air on a clear day.
Had Sken-Pitilkin gone too far south, he would have realized his error as soon as he reached Larbster Bay, an unmistakable landmark which should serve to safeguard the aerial navigator against error. That at least was the theory – but there was no need to put theory to the test.
For, as Sken-Pitilkin flew south, he sighted Drum to the west, and headed in that direction.
On reaching the island, Sken-Pitilkin did not immediately land at his castle, but ventured on a circumnavigation of the shore. From the heights, Sken-Pitilkin and his companions checked the rocky shores for boats, ships, rafts, canoes and wreckage, but saw none such. All they saw was a number of sea dragons, variously sea bathing and sun bathing.
'It is safe,' said Sken-Pitilkin with satisfaction, 'at least as far as I can see.'
Then the wizard sent his stickbird scudding downwards toward his castle. But, while the airship was still high in the air, it began to shake, as if seized in the grip of an enormously powerful invisible monster.
As the air adventurers clutched at the sticks of the airship in outright panic, it tore apart entirely – leaving them hanging in the air with nothing between them and the rocks below but the clear blue sky.
Chapter Forty-Five
Confederation of Wizards: the organization which represents the interests of the eight orders of wizards. The strongholds of the Confederation are the strongholds of Drangsturm, the flame trench which divides Argan North from Argan South. The Confederation dedicates itself to guarding that flame trench, which protects the lands of the north from the Swarms – monsters of the southern terror-lands which are controlled by an entity known as the Skull. The Confederation looks upon the maintenance of Drangsturm as a holy trust. And a very profitable holy trust it is, too, since the Drangsturm Road is an important trade route, and the wizards tax every scrap of merchandise which moves along it.
So Sken-Pitilkin's stickbird tore apart, leaving the sagacious wizard of Skatzabratzumon and his passengers hanging in midair – with nothing between them and the rocks below but the clear blue sky.
Much to Sken-Pitilkin's surprise, they did not fall.
'Are you keeping us up?' yelled Guest.
'No!' said Sken-Pitilkin, clutching the star-globe tight to his chest and keeping a firm grip on his country crook. Sken-Pitilkin's powers of levitation were by no means equal to the task of supporting so many in midair so far above the ground.
'If you're not keeping us up here,' said Sod, kicking his legs in midair, 'then how about getting us down?'
'I'll think about it,' said Sken-Pitilkin.
But he had not the slightest idea of where to start. Usually, to descend after levitating, a wizard of Skatzabratzumon simply eased off the application of Power, and gravity (that force of universal suction exerted by the planet on which we live) then secured a certain descent.
'Get us down!' yelled Sod, kicking his legs in fury.
At which – without Sken-Pitilkin doing anything about it at all – they began to rotate. Swiftly they grew dizzy, and in their dizziness they were sucked downward through the air, which thickened to an impenetrable white fog, which hardened to something as cold as glass.
They ceased rotating, and found themselves sitting in a small teardrop-shaped chamber which glowed with its own cold white light. The light was that of sunstruck snow.
'Where are we?' demanded Sod. Sken-Pitilkin made no response to this demand, for he had not the slightest idea where they might be. He was disorientated – and more than a little frightened.
Then the opacity of the walls began to clear, easing away to a lucid transparency, and Sken-Pitilkin and his erstwhile passengers found themselves sitting inside a tiny teardrop in the center of a three-legged table. Abruptly, the teardrop was ceased, and hoisted skywards. Eljuk screamed in involuntary terror, and Sken-Pitilkin almost
