The Werewolf and the Wormlord coaaod-8

by Hugh Cook

  ‘You — you took bribes,’ said Alfric. ‘You took bribes from me.’

  Xzu looked at Alfric, pitying the poor fool.

  ‘I was authorized to accept your bribes,’ said Xzu.

  ‘And to accept your forged medical reports. The Bank gave me written orders to do as much. You see, we thought we might have a use for you.’

  Alfric opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Like a fish dragged from the water, a fish trying to breathe in a world suddenly become inimical and incomprehensible.

  ‘You see,’ said Xzu softly, ‘the Bank cannot predict the future, nor does it attempt to do so. But it does make contingency plans a long, long time in advance. We think long term, you see.’

  Alfric bowed his head, as if ashamed of himself.

  He was ashamed of himself.

  He had been totally outclassed, out-thought and outmanoeuvred; and such was the blindness of his pride that he had never suspected this for even a moment, not until the revelations of this day of disaster.

  Then Alfric straightened up. He picked up a paperweight, a glass bauble with a yellow flower encapsulated in its depths.

  ‘May I have this?’ said Alfric.

  Xzu looked at him in surprise.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘A gift,’ said Alfric. ‘A gift for my mother.’

  Xzu studied Alfric and the paperweight both, tried to figure out what Alfric’s tactics were, then said abruptly:

  ‘Take it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Alfric.

  And withdrew.

  Alfric collected the orks from the Council Chamber then left Saxo Pall, making for the Green Cricket.

  ‘Where are we going?’ said Cod.

  ‘To Anna Blaume’s,’ said Alfric.

  ‘Oh, that’s good,’ said Morgenstem. ‘You’ll have a chance to have a drink with us, and we can have a good talk.’

  ‘Sorry, but no,’ said Alfric. ‘When we get to the Cricket, I’m going to buy horses and be gone. I have to get out of Galsh Ebrek soon, now, today. Because those who rule from Saxo Pall most definitely intend to kill me.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  As Alfric walked through the streets of Galsh Ebrek, he began to consider what kind of future he might make for himself in Port Domax. His years of strength were half over, but in all probability another thirty-three years of health remained to him. In that time, could he raise the army he would need to recover the throne of Wen Endex?

  As Alfric was so thinking, he turned into Fraudenzimmer Street. And there was the Green Cricket, a two-storey building painted pink. Yes, it had always been pink. But Alfric had seen it so often by night that he had quite forgotten its colour till now.

  ‘Flowers, mister?’ said a girlchild, coming up to him with a bouquet.

  ‘How much?’ said Alfric.

  She named the price; he paid. Where women were concerned, flowers were a most effective weapon of diplomacy. They might sweeten Anna Blaume’s temper and lower the price of the horses Alfric wished to buy from her.

  Thus armed, Alfric advanced upon the Green Cricket. The slovenly thatch was steaming in the hot sun. A few icicles yet clung to the eves; but, even as Alfric approached, one fell off and dagger-darted to the mud below. The front door was open, and the dwarves Du Deiner and Mich Dir were fighting in the doorway. They were supposed to be scrubbing the front step, but, instead, Du Deiner was trying to force Mich Dir’s head into a bucket of hot soapy water.

  ‘Hey,’ said Alfric. ‘Stop that.’

  At which the struggling dwarves knocked over the bucket of water, which went all over Alfric’s boots. He didn’t worry. He had other things to worry about.

  With Cod and Morgenstem on his heels, Alfric went inside, into the Green Cricket. He looked around, as if he had never seen it before by daylight. Skaps the vogel hung upside down from one of the rafters overhead, sleeping. Alfric reached up and chucked the vogel under the chin, whereupon it opened one purple eye and looked at him in a malevolent fashion which was disconcerting in the extreme.

  ‘For a parrot-bat,’ said Alfric, trying to recover his composure, ‘you don’t talk very much.’

  ‘Some of us,’ said Skaps, ‘prefer to think.’

  Then the vogel closed its eye and went back to sleep, leaving Alfric unsure whether he had actually heard that little speech or not. He concealed his discomfiture by pretending an interest in the cradle which sat on one of the tables. Inside was the baby Alfric had rescued from the swamp giant Kralch. Much to Alfric’s surprise, the infant was giggling. When Alfric thought of babies, he thought of them as perpetually operating in the crying mode. The idea that they could sometimes be happy was an alien notion indeed.

  ‘Isn’t it cute?’ said Morgenstem.

  ‘I love it,’ said Cod.

  ‘I’d love a drink,’ said Alfric, turning from the baby to the bar.

  Nobody stood behind the bar. But on top of the bar stood a huge hissing cockroach, which was doing its best to deal with the repeated onslaughts of a determined untunchilamon. Alfric moved closer, fascinated by this scene of combat. Though the miniscule dragon was no larger than the massive orthopterous insect, Alfric thought the firedrake would surely conquer.

  As Alfric watched, the dragon spat sparks and closed with the cockroach. The roach hissed and outsquirted a fine spray of a vile and stinging fluid. The untunchilamon squeaked in rage and threw itself upon its manxome foe. The two creatures grappled with each other, rolled over and over, then tumbled to the floor and broke apart. Making a rapid recovery, they confronted each other, ready for a second round.

  Then the floorboards began to creak and tremble as someone came tromping down the stairs, and the cockroach scuttled away to the nearest mousehole while the untunchilamon took to the air.

  Who was it who was coming down those stairs?

  Why, it was Anna Blaume herself, she of the larded skin, the blue-green yellow hair.

  ‘For you,’ said Alfric, handing her the flowers.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Anna Blaume.

  Then kissed the flowers.

  One of the petals came away, and she ate it, her strong white teeth crunching its force-grown beauty into little pieces. Then she swallowed it, grinning. She was strong and virile, the promise of many children dwelling between her stalwart thighs.

  ‘Is Viola here?’ said Alfric.

  ‘Viola has taken herself off to the convent,’ said Anna Blaume.

  ‘You must be joking,’ said Alfric in astonishment.

  ‘No,’ said Anna Blaume. ‘It’s the truth.’

  Alfric thought a convent was the last place in the world where Viola Vanaleta would be happy. Galsh Ebrek’s convent was the refuge of all those women who were dissatisfied with life in a world of men; and, if there was any truth in the rumours Alfric had heard, their days were largely given over to drinking bouts, wrestling matches and shameless indulgence in other uncouth pleasures.

  ‘She’s divorcing me, I take it,’ said Alfric.

  ‘She’s divorced you already,’ said Anna Blaume.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go to the divorce court if you don’t believe me,’ said Anna Blaume. ‘It’s all finished.’

  ‘But-but-’

  ‘She forged your signature on certain documents, of course,’ said Anna Blaume. ‘Otherwise the whole thing might have taken much more time. You don’t object, do you?’

  ‘It is but a trifle,’ said Alfric heavily. Then, realizing he was a free man: ‘Will you marry me?’

  ‘No,’ said Anna Blaume.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You had your chance.’

  This was true. When Alfric had been engaged to Viola Vanaleta, Anna Blaume had asked him to break the engagement and marry her instead. But he had refused. A mistake.

  ‘Your mother’s here,’ said Anna Blaume.

  ‘Gertrude?’ said Alfric, again startled.

  ‘Yes,’ said Blaume. ‘You don’t have any other mother, do you?’
>
  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ said Alfric. ‘Where is she?’ ‘In the beer garden,’ said Anna Blaume.

  So Alfric went out of the back door to greet his mother. She was sitting at a table which rested on the flagstones which paved the beer garden. She was drinking gin. Little Ben Zvanzig was sitting under the table, playing with his pet frog, while Anna Blaume’s daughter Sheila, with half a dozen dolls at her disposal, was playing at being a brothel keeper.

  ‘Mother,’ said Alfric.

  Greeting Gertrude with a kiss on her cheek.

  ‘Alfric, my boy,’ said Gertrude. ‘Sit down. Sit down.’

  Alfric sat. And the orks Cod and Morgenstem, who had followed him outside, sat down also.

  ‘I’ve got something for you,’ said Alfric, producing the paperweight.

  ‘Alfric,’ said Gertrude. ‘That’s very nice of you.’

  A tear glistened in her eye, and Alfric hoped she wasn’t going to cry.

  ‘Where have you been today?’ said Gertrude.

  Alfric was about to answer when he realized the question was being directed at the orks.

  ‘Up at Saxo Pall,’ said Cod.

  ‘How did it go?’ said Gertrude.

  ‘Not too bad,’ said Cod. ‘Yes. All in all, things aren’t going too badly.’

  ‘By which we mean,’ said Morgenstem, glumly, ‘that things could be worse. Much worse. We could have come down with bubonic plague by now.’

  ‘But we haven’t,’ said Cod.

  ‘But we will,’ said Morgenstem. ‘If we stay in Galsh Ebrek we surely will. It’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘Ah well,’ said Gertrude, ‘I’m sure it’ll all come right for you in time.’

  Then she excused herself from the table and toddled into the Green Cricket. Alfric knew he should be moving. He should buy horses from Anna Blaume and be gone. Instantly. But he was finding himself possessed by lethargy.

  ‘What happened between you and Banker Xzu?’ said Cod.

  ‘Nothing much,’ said Alfric.

  ‘Did he offer to help you?’ said Morgenstem. ‘Help you win the throne, I mean.’

  ‘No,’ said Alfric. ‘He told me to get out of Galsh Ebrek lest I die in my sleep. He told me I’ve been kicked out of the Bank. I’m not welcome here.’

  ‘So… so who is actually going to rule in Galsh Ebrek?’ said Cod.

  ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken,’ said Alfric, ‘Justina Thrug has come out on top, with Ursula Major as her puppet.’

  Then he elaborated.

  ‘That’s nice to hear,’ said Cod. ‘At least it means there won’t be a war in the city. Political stability makes things easier for us ambassadors. In theory, at least.’

  ‘But in practice, probably not,’ said Morgenstem. ‘What’s the prob lem?’ said Alfric.

  ‘Nobody takes us seriously, that’s the problem,’ said Cod. ‘Because we’re orks. It makes it very hard to get business done.’

  ‘And,’ said Morgenstem, ‘we find it hard to settle to business in any kind.’

  ‘Why?’said Alfric.

  ‘Because,’ said Morgenstem, the eyes of the big lubbery creature growing wet with tears, ‘we’re afraid. Afraid of living here. Afraid of the Knights and the commoners.’

  ‘Afraid?’ said Alfric. ‘I don’t believe it! You were heroes up in Saxo Pall. Challenging Ursula Major like that. I was ever so impressed.’

  ‘Were you?’ said Cod.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘Really.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Cod. ‘We did… we did rise to the occasion, and we know it. We’re proud of it. But it’s the routine that’s wearing us down.’

  ‘The routine,’ said Morgenstem, ‘of just living in this city.’

  ‘They make jokes about us, you see,’ said Cod. ‘Jokes about eating us. I can take a joke. But it’s not a joke, not really. They really do want to eat us. I can’t sleep at night for the bad dreams.’

  ‘Sleep by day, then,’ said Alfric carelessly ‘Oh, it’s all right f or you,’ said Morgenstem. ‘You’re not an ork. Nobody ever threatened t o boil you down for your blubber oil.’

  ‘Well… no,’ said Alfric, conceding the point.

  ‘If you were ambassador,’ said Cod, ‘King Dimple-Dumpling’s ambassador, I mean, then people would take you seriously. You could get things done. Not like us orks.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ said Alfric. ‘The Izdimir Empire has an ambassador here, but nobody takes him too seriously. They make jokes about him too, you know. It’s not just because you’re orks. It’s because you’re outsiders. Anyway, if it’s getting too much for you, why don’t you go back to the Qinjoks?’

  ‘King Dimple-Dumpling wouldn’t like that,’ said Morgenstem. ‘He has to have an ambassador in Galsh Ebrek.’

  ‘Then let him send an ogre,’ said Alfric. ‘One of his sons, perhaps. This just isn’t the place for orks. I’m quite happy to come along to the Qinjoks and tell the king that myself.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Cod, ‘that’s awfully kind of you. But it wouldn’t really be a good idea. The king’s most awfully keen to keep an ambassador here. We’re under orders.

  We can’t leave unless we can find someone to substitute for us.’

  Cod paused.

  Looked at Alfric.

  Morgenstem did likewise.

  And Alfric thought to himself, in amusement:

  — They want me to be ambassador?

  Oh no.

  That was impossible.

  Or was it?

  Technically… technically it might be possible. If Alfric became the ogre-king’s ambassador in Galsh Ebrek, then the Powers That Be would not dare murder him, lest they start a war with the Qinjoks. But… but Alfric planned to leave the continent of Yestron for the continent of Tameran. To make a new life for himself in Port Domax. There, life would be a struggle, but there was no limit to what he might achieve, given time.

  Whereas to be the ogre-king’s ambassador in Galsh Ebrek would surely be a dead end.

  ‘Maybe you’re mistaken about the importance the king attaches to diplomatic representation in Galsh Ebrek,’ said Alfric. ‘I don’t see why King Dimple-Dumpling really needs an ambassador here at all. Our relations are perfectly cordial, and will remain so as long ' as the annual tribute is paid.‘, Alfric frankly did not think that payment of that annual tribute represented much of a strain on the treasury of the king of the Qinjoks.

  Cod looked at Morgenstem.

  Morgenstem looked at Cod.

  ‘Shall we tell him?’ said Morgenstem.

  ‘Let’s,’said Cod. '

  So Morgenstem said to Alfric:

  ‘King Dimple-Dumpling wants to open a bank. Here. In Galsh Ebrek.’

  ‘A bank?’ said Alfric, not bothering to conceal his surprise.

  ‘Yes,’ said Morgenstem. ‘A bank.’

  ‘But why?’ said Alfric.

  ‘Why does anyone open a bank?’ said Cod. ‘To make money. The king’s got all that treasure up in the Qinjoks with no place to invest it. The stuff just sits there getting warm in spring and cold in autumn. If the king had a bank, he could lend out his money for interest. Invest. Land, ships, insurance. You know. You’re a banker. I don’t have to tell you all this stuff, you know it already.’ ‘It’s a nice idea,’ said Alfric cautiously. ‘But investment opportunities in Galsh Ebrek are somewhat limited. I don’t know that there’s room enough for another bank. Not here.’

  ‘Of course there is,’ said Cod. ‘After all, you trade with the world.’

  A fever-flush burnt through Alfric’s veins. He felt dizzy. Did the orks know about that? But how? How could they?

  — Careful now.

  — This could be a trap.

  Then Alfric chided himself for being so foolish. Of course the orks knew nothing of the Bank’s secret. They couldn’t. It just wasn’t possible. When the orks said that Galsh Ebrek traded with the world, all they meant was that ships came and went, and those ships could go a
nywhere in the world to do their trading.

  ‘Let’s have some wine,’ said Alfric abruptly.

  He raised his voice, and, by dint of a little shouting, summoned Du Deiner from inside the Green Cricket. Orders were placed, and, shortly, Alfric was sipping on some delicate lemon-flavoured wine. By now he had quite recovered himself, so he said:

  ‘With reference to trade, you know as well as I do that a few ships come and go to and from Wen Endex. So, yes, certainly, we trade with the world. But it’s a lean tradeline, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Cod. ‘But it’s not ships I’m talking about. I’m talking about the Door.’

  Alfric felt as if he had been abruptly dumped into a barrel of boiling water. They knew! They knew! The orks were privy to the Secret! This was a thunderbolt upset if ever there was one.

  But Alfric masked his face with a diplomat’s blandness and said, lightly, lightly, making a joke of it:

  ‘Door? Yes, the Bank’s got a Door for sure, otherwise we’d have to climb over the walls every time we went in and out.’

  Thus he spoke, then felt a pang of anguish when he realized that ‘we’ no longer included himself. He was an outcast, excluded from the company of his fellows. And, for a moment, he almost wanted to weep.

  ‘It’s not that I’m talking of,’ said Cod. ‘I’m talking of a Door which goes from here to Elsewhere. To Chi’ash-lan, Parengarenga and Tang. To Argan. To Ashmolea.’ Alfric almost declared Cod to be in error; for of course the Circle of the Partnership Banks did not give them access to Ashmolea. However, he restrained his tongue. Took the time to think. Then answered, trying to make his answer seem careless:

  ‘A pretty tale, methinks, and one you must fabricate for me in full, for I warrant it worth the telling. But of your mysterious Door I know nothing.’

  ‘See?’ said Morgenstem. ‘I told you he was a liar.’ ‘Don’t be too hard on him,’ said Cod. ‘It’s his upbringing.’

  ‘What do you mean, I’m a liar?’ said Alfric. ‘I’m telling you the truth.’

  ‘We’d believe you if we could,’ said Cod, ‘but we know better. Ogres and orks have always known about the Door, you see. We go back to the days before Galsh Ebrek, you see. Before the city was ever founded. Before the Bank built on Mobius Kolb.’