by Hugh Cook
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 street to join them in the sunlight. His black bullfur shone with sunsheen. The pale ivory of his horns gleamed in the light of day’s great luminary. The two young lovers lived in his eyes as miniature reflections. Olivia looked at this obscene creature, this mutant abomination, then hid her face in Chegory’s shoulder.
‘Are you ready to go?’ said Log Jaris.
A couple of flies settled on his nostrils. He waved them away. They dizzied upwards, one settling on his larboard horn.
‘Go?’ said Ingalawa angrily. ‘Where would you be thinking of going? Where are you taking Chegory Guy? And why? Explain yourself!’
‘I’m not taking him anywhere,’ said Log Jaris. ‘It’s Uckermark who’s taking him.’
‘We have to go to the palace,’ said Chegory, trying to explain. ‘A, um, a depositions hearing, that’s what it’s all about. That’s why we’re going.’
‘A depositions hearing!’ said Ingalawa. ‘Are you guilty? Have you got a lawyer? What have you done?’
‘I’ve done nothing!’ said Chegory.
‘Oh, that’s what you all say!’ retorted Ingalawa. ‘But you were mixed up in that riot, weren’t you? That riot at the treasury? And where were you all yesterday? And all last night? Here? Doing what? Whatever it was, why didn’t you show yourself at the Dromdanjerie today? Or at Jod?’ ‘Look,’ said Chegory, ‘it’s complicated, okay?’ ‘Complicated?’ said Ingalawa. ‘What’s complicated about it?’
‘All kinds of things,’ said Chegory. ‘Varazchavardan, that sorcerer, you know, okay? He’s got — we — we had this like kind of run in so now I want to keep out of his way, okay? So he’d look for me in the Dromdanjerie, okay, or at Jod, where I live, where I work. But he doesn’t know about the corpse shop, or I thought he didn’t, though maybe he does. And this — these — those soldiers Shabble burnt, they might still be looking for me so I don’t want to be found. Because I’m, okay, maybe technically some kind of escaped prisoner, but I’ve, um-’
‘You’ve got yourself in a mess,’ said Ingalawa. ‘If you’re trying to hide from soldiers or from Varazchavardan then what’re you doing going to the palace? They’ll easily catch you!’
Chegory reacted violendy. The more so because the illogic of his position had already been exposed by the delivery of the summons. The corpse shop was no hideaway!
‘So tough!’ said he. ‘So I tried, okay? Uncaught all yesterday, all last night. Last day of my life, last night maybe. But maybe not. I’ll be okay up at the palace because, uh, the Empress, she likes me, trusts me.
’
‘The boy’s deluded!’ said Ingalawa. ‘If you had the trust of the Empress you wouldn’t be going on trial for whatever it is you’ve done.’
‘I’m not on trial!’ said Chegory.
‘But you just said you were,’ said Ingalawa.
This was so unreasonable that Chegory was tempted to hit her. Then Uckermark came out into the sunlight and, speaking over Ingalawa’s wrath, said:
‘Our young friend from the Ebrells is charged with nothing. Guilty of many things he doubtless is, but he lives innocent of all charges. He is but attending a depositions hearing as a witness.’
‘In what kind of case?’ said Ingalawa.
‘A case of high treason,’ said Uckermark.
‘What a thing to get mixed up in!’ said Ingalawa, in tones of condemnation.
She was making Chegory feel as if he had done something wrong. He reminded himself that in point of fact he had been strenuously virtuous throughout his recent troubles. It made no difference. Ingalawa still made him feel soiled, contaminated, guilty. How did she do it? Easily, easily. Whenever he was in her presence, her air of effortless superiority automatically put him at a disadvantage.
Chegory, boiling with murderous resentment, almost said what he thought, but restrained himself. This took heroic effort, for, despite his recent sleep, he was as tired as the fly which flew to the moon. Waiting around in the corpse shop had scarcely helped him recover from his recent traumas. Instead, it had given him unlimited opportunity to worry about the mess he had got himself into and all the people who might be after his blood.
‘So,’ said Ingalawa, ‘how did you get mixed up in a treason trial?’
‘We can go into that later,’ said Chegory.
‘Chegory,’ said Ingalawa sharply, ‘I think you’d better tell us what’s going on right now. In detail.’
Chegory looked at Uckermark helplessly. What wasn’t going on? He was in so many kinds of trouble it would have taken all morning to catalogue them. But he had tried so hard to be good! To be an exemplary citizen!
‘Chegory?’ said Ingalawa, questioning his silence.
‘I don’t know where to begin,’ said Chegory.
‘Then start by telling us what you’re doing. Here. With these — these people. Are you in some kind of trouble?’ The woman was being so obtuse! How could he not be in trouble? Chegory had striven strenuously to remain reticent, but now found words pouring out wrath-hot and burning, like a torrent of molten wax:
‘Trouble! Of course I’m in trouble! I wanted to go back to Jod, when Ox first warned us I wanted to go back, but you wouldn’t have it on. Oh no, you said, don’t run away. It’s your right, you said. You’re a citizen, you said. You’ve got the law on your side. Oh, all right for you to speak!
‘But then what happens? That lunatic Shabble gets us all in the shit and we all get arrested then the guards come back and then what? Oh you stay put, it’s no trouble for you, but I get dragged off to the palace.
‘And then what? Oh, nothing much. Just riots, breakouts, mad wizards, monsters, drug dealers. And Varazchavardan, oh I could be here all day just telling you about Varazchavardan. And then what? The palace, and that mad bitch Justina trying to rape me, then the dragon, there was a dragon in the palace and I nearly got killed.
‘But what about you? Oh you’re all right, aren’t you? You got out of jail okay, you’ve got a lawyer I guess, you’ll be all right. Because you’re an Ashdan, you’ve got respect, but I’m just an Ebby, they’ll kill me as soon as look at me, whatever goes wrong it’s going to be my fault, isn’t it?
‘And none of it would have happened, none of it, if you’d just let me go back to the island. That’s all. Just hide away for the night. I knew it, I knew it, but you-’
Chegory clenched his fist as if he was going to hit her. Then he Jjurst into tears instead. Wracked by the unbearable pain of existence. Artemis stood clear of him, not at all sure what to make of his outburst — fearing him perhaps a potential killer. But Log Jaris slapped him on the shoulder and said:
‘That’s better said than living inside you unsaid.’
Then Uckermark said:
Time we were going, Chegory. The summons demands.
We can’t be late for this hearing. Log Jaris, my friend — can you stay here to help Yilda look after the shop? In case of raiders and such.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Log Jaris.
‘If you’re going,’ said Ingalawa, in a moment of swift decision, ‘then we two are going with you.’
So off they set, Artemis Ingalawa and Olivia Qasaba travelling in consort with Chegory and Uckermark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It was one of those days when even those born and bred on Untunchilamon find the heat oppressive. The whole city had slowed to the leisurely pace of convalescence, for it was impossible to exert oneself at speed. Thanks to the heat, the very effort of idling up Lak Street had become an exercise in advanced calisthenics.
[It cannot get so hot. Sloth is a deficiency of the intellect which should never be blamed on climate. If a trifling warmth of weather truly inflicted such stasis upon Injiltaprajura then we have a shocking picture of an entire culture sunk in irretrievable decadence. One longs to see the Conquest commence and a muscular Religion bring the virtues of Work and Efficiency to such a derelict society. Srin Gold, Commentator Extraordinary.]
Untunchilamon is ever hot, but on exceptional days of sweat like rhis when even the hardiest armpit lice must fear death by drowning, when every pair of thighs in the city is as wet as honeymoon passion, when every crutch is a reeking gymnasium, then the heat seems to come not just from the sun alone but from the sky itself, and, indeed, from the very streets themselves. The bloodrock was heating to the point of flux. The white mass of Pearl was glazed by an intolerable glare. Heat-distorted buildings shimmered and buckled as the air itself warped in helpless agony.
Such weather produces certain types of madness much feared on Untunchilamon. There is for example the mind-state called (to name it in Janjuladoola) talabrapalau, when one lives in fear of bursting into flame in an episode of spontaneous conflagration. Another psychosis, the name of which escapes me, has one believing that the rocks will ignite. I have also met a man who feared he would dissolve into sweat, flow through the windows of the Dromdanjerie, tumble down the precipitous slopes of Skindik Way to Lubos, muck through the slum-filth then splosh into the Laitemata.
Thus we see that madness is specific to culture. We see this elsewhere, indeed. For example, in the city of Babrika, where everything is so mannerly, where politeness rules all and no voice is ever raised in anger, it happens that from time to time an individual will run amok and hack through the marketplace until being overpowered then chopped into pieces no larger than your baby’s thumb.
On the Ebrells, on the other hand, certain individuals revolt against the life of the organism, showing their hatred for the degeneracy of their fellows by developing a condition known as Pinch, when they refuse food and starve themselves to death. Strangely, while thus starving they delude themselves that they are healthy and getting healthier.
In Obooloo, of course, religious mania takes its toll, whereas on the island of Odrum [Here sundry slanders and laboriously erroneous pedantries have been deleted. By Order. Vendano, Guardian of the Honour of Odrum.]
Thus it was that Chegory and his companions were a muck of sweat as they laboured up Lak Street to the palace where the Empress Justina held court. The palace! A monument to eroticism. The pink thighs of its walls. The breasts of its cupolas. Sweet indeed it would have been, but for the intolerable reflections from the glitter dome, which was very agony to look at.
The redskinned Ebrell Islander and his escorts penetrated the pink flesh of Justina’s palace. After the light of the sun, everything was muted except the heat. An usher intercepted them, asked their mission, then showed them to the Star Chamber where the depositions hearing would take place. On the way, they passed the saturnine Sl
anic Moldova, at work on his great mural, which bears the title ‘Sky Worshipping The Kraken Her Master’.
‘Hello, Sian,’ said Olivia, pausing to look at his work.
Chegory paused with her. Slanic Moldova was working at full pitch, brush darting and sweeping, flashing from palette to wall. Then to flesh. Before Chegory could pull back, Moldova had swept blue paint from Chegory’s eyebrows to his chin.
‘Zoso!’ said Olivia sharply.
At the enunciation of this phrase, Moldova’s paint-hand swayed to a halt as he fell into a hypnotic trance. Olivia took his hand and gently guided brush to wall, knowing he would work on for much of the rest of the day without waking from his trance.
‘Hurry!’ said the usher, with a note of urgency. ‘Hurry, else the hearing will start without you.’
So they husded on down the hall, with Chegory making frantic efforts to clean his face. But mural paint is notoriously difficult to remove.
‘Stop!’ said Ingalawa, as they reached the portal to the Star Chamber.
She could see the hearings were not yet underway. They yet had time. She whipped out a clean sweat rag and attacked the paint on Chegory’s face.
‘Leave that young man alone,’ said a voice of command. It was the voice of Aquitaine Varazchavardan, Master of Law to the Empress Justina. ‘Come,’ said Varazchavardan. ‘The depositions hearing is about to begin.’
‘Just let me just clean his face,’ said Ingalawa, renewing her onslaught on the streak of sky besmirching Chegory’s flame-red complexion.
‘How dare you!’ said Varazchavardan, snatching the rag away. ‘Interfere with this witness again and I’ll have you hung, strung and gutted.’
They stared at each other. A startling contrast they made. Varazchavardan with his eyes of pink. Ingalawa with orbs as dark as the moonless sea. Varazchavardan with his skin as white as the greater narjorgo corpse worm. Ingalawa with her coal-gloss skin as dark as the plumage of the dark lartle, that bad-tempered sharp-beaked bird of Wen Endex.