Chegory was so shattered by fate’s perversion of all his expectations and by the sheer velocity of the events which had overwhelmed his life’s routines that he asked not a single question as Uckermark marched him out of the pink palace, down Lak Street as far as the Cabal House of Injiltaprajura’s wonderworkers, down Skindik Way then through the narrows of Lubos to the Corpse Shop.
‘This is my house,’ said Uckermark when they got there. ‘Not for long,’ said Chegory. ‘It’s on fire!’
The door stood ajar — and black smoke was pouring from within. But Uckermark merely laughed and threw the door wide open. Chegory stepped back as clouds of thick, choking fumes billowed outwards.
‘Come in, come in,’ said Uckermark.
‘You’re mad!’ said Chegory, coughing and choking. Then, as the smoke thinned a little, he saw the fumes issuing from large double-handled pots set just within.
‘In,’ said Uckermark.
‘But — but the — but why the smoke?’
‘Because flies love flesh,’ said Uckermark. ‘In, so I can close the door.’
Chegory went inside. Uckermark put the lids on the smoke pots then closed the door entirely. When Chegory had finished coughing and crying — the smoke was devilish for stinging the eyes — he began to look around and get his bearings. There was death everywhere he looked.
Chegory had seen a few dead bodies in his time but the corpse shop was something else again for it was crowded with the unkempt dead. Flies in their thousands buzzed in manic frustration on the outer side of the gauze which sealed the windows against their intrusion. Everywhere there were limbs, bones, buckets of blood, assorted organs spilling out of sacks, heads bereft of connection, unidentifiable torsos and worse.
As for the smell!
The slaughterhouse stench was worse than the gut-wrenching odour which arose from the helpless dements locked into Crawlspace Seven in the Dromdanjerie. It made Chegory nauseous. Uckermark displayed no discomfort, which was understandable; the corpse master had no sense of smell whatsoever, since that sense had been utterly destroyed when his face was ravaged by fire.
‘Sit!’ said Uckermark curtly, pointing to a stool.
Chegory sat, averted his eyes from a pile of unmentionable oddments in a tray near his feet.
‘Thank you… thank you for saving me,’ said Chegory awkwardly.
‘I didn’t save you,’ said Uckermark. ‘I saved this.’ He meant the knife. A pretty thing: its handle azure, its blade celadon. ‘This,’ he continued, ‘must not win unwanted attention, else the Calligrapher’s Union will have to seek a new recognition sign.’
‘The… the Calligrapher’s Union?’ said Chegory.
‘You don’t know!?’ said Uckermark, startled.
‘Know what?’ said Chegory.
‘So you don’t! Gods, I wished I’d — bugger! The banquet. I have to take you to banquet.’
‘Why’s that so terrible?’ said Chegory.
‘Because it means I can’t just cut your thieving throat and dump your corpse down a sewer!’ said Uckermark.
‘I’m no thief!’ protested Chegory.
‘Then how did you get this knife?’
‘I found it, didn’t I?’
‘Found it!’
‘It’s true! What’s with the knife, anyway? That’s — what, something for that union, calligraphy, that’s letterwriting, isn’t it? You’ve got a union for that? Look, I’m not in competition, I can’t hardly write excepting for Ashmarlan, who uses Ashmarlan anyway, I mean a few Ashdans but but-’
‘Shut up!’ said Uckermark. ‘Stop babbling! Just answer questions. You’ll learn all in due course — if you live. If you do want to live pray tell how you came by this knife.’
‘Oh, it’s a long story, a long story,’ said Chegory. ‘A terrible story, you wouldn’t believe, but it’s the truth, I’ll truth it all out to you. There were some shark jaws, you see, down below. That’s after I met the Malud marauders, or was it, no, I met the elf first, he’s a chef at the moment or pretending to be but Downstairs he was all in armour, nice as a fish-skin it fitted, like a, an elven lord from legend. You see-’
Thus Chegory, in a rush, began to vomit up his life’s secrets. Uckermark raised a hand, halting his incontinent blatter.
‘Let’s take this bit by bit,’ said Uckermark. ‘Where did you first lay hands on the knife?’
‘In the dark,’ said Chegory.
Which was true, but was less than informative.
‘Talk sense!’ said Uckermark.
‘I’m trying, I’m trying! But you — you — this stink, those flies, the — what do you think I-’
Uckermark sighed.
‘Ease up,’ said the corpse master. ‘Easy, now! We’ll try a little medicine, maybe that will make you settle.’
So saying, the corpse master took a small cup of eggshell porcelain, filled it with clear fluid then passed it to Chegory. Who drank without caution. He coughed and spluttered. It felt as if liquid fire had been poured down his throat. He looked at the half-full cup with horror.
This was alcohol!
A righteous, law-abiding young man would have flung the filthy stuff in the corpse master’s face. But Chegory Guy was an Ebrell Islander. Therefore, after a pause to collect his breath, he downed the rest of the bub in a single swallow.
Whereupon he began to feel… better.
‘Good medicine, isn’t it just?’ said Uckermark, with something of a chuckle.
‘It does the job,’ admitted Chegory, finding his nerves much steadier.
‘Slowly, then,’ said Uckermark. ‘Let’s take these questions slowly. You found the knife in the dark, did you? Pray tell — where found you this particular dark?’
Soon, Uckermark knew the bare essentials of Chegory’s adventurings Downstairs.
‘I’ll send for Log Jaris,’ said the corpse master.
‘Log Jaris?’
‘The bullman.’
‘Does he… is he… is it his knife?’
‘Never you mind about that,’ said Uckermark. Then he gave vent to an ear-shattering shout: ‘Yilda!’
From upstairs there came a hard-bitten woman aged somewhere between forty and sixty.
‘Chegory,’ shouted Uckermark, pointing at Chegory.
She nodded.
‘Go fetch Log Jaris!’ shouted Uckermark.
Yilda nodded again, then departed.
‘She’s deaf?’ said Chegory.
‘And mute,’ said Uckermark. ‘The deafness is a problem, but the muteness — ah, many a man would kill to be so privileged.’
Then he chuckled.
It might as well be noted at this juncture that he was making a misogynistical joke. Yilda was deaf — though the degree of her deafness is not known precisely, since she was one of those people who often choose not to hear what is said unless it suits their convenience — but she was not by any means mute.
Since the corpse master was (at least temporarily) once more in good humour, Chegory risked another query about Log Jaris, but his attempts to elicit further information were rebuffed.
The truth of the matter is that both Uckermark and Log Jaris were members of the Calligrapher’s Union, a secret society formed on Untunchilamon during the days of Wazir Sin, whose rigorous enforcement of the laws of the Izdimir Empire had made life very difficult for people who could not properly document their existence. Hence the Calligrapher’s Union specialised in forgery. It was, in effect, a self-defence league for people whose legality was at best marginal.
A knife with an azure handle and a celadon blade was the recognition sign of the Union. When Uckermark had seen soldiers snatch such a blade from Chegory Guy in the pink palace the deluded corpse master had thought Chegory to be a member of the Union, or to at least be in possession of the Union’s secrets. This misapprehension was what had inspired the corpse master to heroic endeavour in the fight before the throne of the Empress Justina.
‘May I… have you got anywhere…’
‘The toilet?’ said Uckermark. ‘It’s in the courtyard. That’s out the back. Don’t let in the flies! There’s three screen doors, my own invention, a flylock. If you can’t make sense of it, come and tell me.’
‘Yes, but, um… what I really wanted… if I could…’ ‘Out with it, boy!’
‘Well actually, if you’ve got anywhere I could sleep, I wouldn’t mind putting my head down.’
‘Oh, sleep,’ said Uckermark. ‘Upstairs, if that’s what you want to do. But there’s bars on the windows, so don’t think you can run away or anything like that.’
‘You’re keeping me prisoner?’
‘What else can I do? The Empress demands you! I’ve got to keep you safe till the banquet at the very least.’ ‘Banquet?’ said Chegory blankly.
‘The Empress Justina invited you to dine with her.’
‘But that — that was a joke. Surely!’
‘The Empress,’ said Uckermark severely, ‘does not joke. Certainly not about matters so near and dear to her heart.’ ‘I’m not near and dear to her heart!’
‘But you will be,’ said Uckermark. ‘To her heart, liver, kidney, spleen. And something equally wet and warm.’ Then he winked in a truly obscene and insinuating fashion. Did he mean…? No, surely not!
‘Are you sure… are you sure she wasn’t making a joke?’
‘I’m positive!’ said Uckermark. ‘Justina’s her father’s daughter. She knows what she wants. Oh, she fancied for sure when she clapped eyes on you. So enjoy your sleep while you’ve got the opportunity!’
Chegory hoped he misunderstood the implications of Uckermark’s comments. Nevertheless, whether Uckermark was truthing or joking, the young Ebrell Islander could certainly use all the shuteye he could get. So, after a quick visit to the courtyard, he got himself upstairs and laid himself down on the bed he found there, and was near instantly asleep.
Young Chegory Guy was still asleep when Log Jaris arrived at the corpse shop. Long did the bullman and the corpse master confer and most serious were the matters which they discussed.
Several members of the Calligrapher’s Union had been arrested as troops swept and reswept the city in their search for the wishstone. The solution was obvious. The Calligrapher’s Union must itself catch the thieves who stole the wishstone. Before things got out of hand.
Thanks to information Uckermark had received from Chegory Guy, they knew the wishstone was Downstairs with three Malud marauders. Log Jaris and Uckermark both knew the depths intimately. One of their legal sidelines was bounty hunting, and they had many times in the past ventured Downstairs to run down escaped slaves, rapists, murderers and eloping young lovers.
‘How many men can we muster?’ said Uckermark.
‘Twenty at short, more at long,’ said Log Jaris.
‘What about dogs?’
‘A dozen hunters, no problem. We’ll backtrack from my cellar. Follow the boy’s trail till the dogs pick up something else.’
‘Will that work? Will the scent be fresh enough?’
‘We can but try,’ said Log Jaris. ‘If that fails, we’ll quarter the underworld by sectors. Track any scent we find. Might take us a few days, but they can’t hide forever. Got the map?’
Uckermark pulled out a map, one copy of many of the plans of the underworld which the Calligrapher’s Union had assembled over the years. Then the two began to discuss tactics in detail.
‘What if we catch them?’ said Log Jaris. ‘Interrogate them ourselves, or what?’
‘No, straight to the palace,’ said Uckermark. ‘The sooner this State of Emergency comes to an end the better.’ ‘What about this thief in the palace? The man the boy thinks to be an elf?’
‘The Zozimus fellow?’ said Uckermark. ‘Leave him. He’s doing us no harm, is he? Might be blackmail money there. I’ll keep close hold of the boy, he’s our witness against Zozimus.’
‘What if Zozimus sees the boy at the banquet?’
‘What if he does? I’ll be with him, won’t I? No, don’t you worry about that. Get the dogs together, get the men.’ ‘Just one thing,’ said Log Jaris. ‘What if our quarry’s gone to ground in here?’
So saying, he pointed at the plan of the underworld. The section he indicated had been mapped more by guesswork than anything else. It was a region of doom. Of hideous things from which nightmare itself would have fled.
‘Turn loose the dogs, that’s what I’d do,’ said Uckermark. ‘Let the dogs hunt free. They might flush something out. But if the dogs fail — forget it. You wouldn’t catch me going in there!’
‘Okay,’ said Log Jaris.
‘You’d already decided, hadn’t you?’ said Uckermark. ‘You’re not fool enough to hunt to the horrors!’
‘Yes,’ said Log Jaris, ‘but I wanted to hear you say the same for yourself.’
Then the bullman and the corpse master both laughed, and settled down to share a drink or three before Log Jaris took himself off to organise a hunt of the underworld for the wishstone and the Malud marauders from far-off Asral who had stolen it.