by Hugh Cook
‘Right,’ said Justina. ‘To finish with two down, one up.’ Froissart tried to concentrate. But something was wrong with his head. Mentally he configured and reconfigured the glasses. But he couldn’t get the fit he wanted. Sweat bulged from his forehead and his heart raced itself in a panic.
With Froissart debilitated by such stress, the oola he had consumed earlier in the day began winning its battle with his constitution. The beakers stretched, swelled, turned purple and ran with yellow fire. Yet their configuration—
Their configuation remained the same.
And, for the life of him, Froissart could not see how to manoeuvre them into the configuration Justina demanded.
Yet the Empress had managed it.
As Froissart struggled with the problem, a drum began to beat.
Thop-thop-tup!
Thop - thop - tup . . .
Froissart looked round for the source of the noise. Then realized it was in his own head. He was still suffering from zen, or else was enduring stress hallucinations, or else was going mad. Or was being bewitched. Froissart stared at Justina.
—Say nothing!
So Froissart thought to himself. But his tongue was already blabbering:
‘You - you’re a - are you a witch?’
‘I have my powers,’ said Justina.
She opened a cupboard, brought out a skin of wine and filled two of the glasses.
‘Drink,’ she said. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’
Froissart seized his glass and drank convulsively.
‘Now you know me a little better,’ said Justina. ‘You see me for what I am. The possessor of powers.’
Froissart was not entirely convinced. But fatigue, combined with the mind-buckling effects of oola, made it hopeless for him to try to pursue the truth further. He said his apologies and fled.
Once Froissart had left, Olivia Qasaba emerged from behind the screen from where she had watched the proceedings.
‘Are you really a witch?’ said Olivia.
‘Witch enough,’ said Justina smugly, sipping at her wine.
‘You mean you are or you aren’t?’
‘That’s for you to work out,’ said Justina.
Olivia thought about it long and hard, and in the end concluded that Justina was indeed possessed of magical powers. But Olivia was wrong. As others have remarked, there is far less magic in the world than most people think. And, if the Empress Justina was indeed possessed of occult powers, she had not chosen to exercise them on this occasion.
Those who wish to test their intellectual powers against Olivia’s are invited to ask themselves how the Empress Justina worked a swindle on the genius level intelligence of the trained intellect of Jean Froissart. Those desirous of no such test can turn to the very end of this tome, where the explanation is given. Alternatively, the matter may be ignored entirely. For the explanation is, unfortunately, bathotic rather than glamorous; but then, that is the nature of the greater part of life and living.
For the rest of that daylight, Olivia kept Justina company as the Empress supervised arrangements for the night’s banquet. Meanwhile, Jean Froissart lay in a narrow bed in Moremo Maximum Security Prison, staring at the bloodstone walls and trying to get to sleep. He needed rest urgently, but sleep he could not, because of the rats gnawing his feet, the serpent fighting the dragon inside his skull, the octopus writhing from his omphalos.
He decided to go for a walk to calm himself down, walking being one of the standard cures for insomnia. But this improved matters not at all, though he walked to the far north of Untunchilamon and far out across the waters of Moana, coming at last to a grey and undulating plain where live flying fish struggled in their millions in pits of red-hot coals, and where a witch with a green skull for a head was splashing Trasilika’s head against a wall made of crab shells as the distant music of a mandolin dwindled into the darkness . . .
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
That evening, as guests began to gather for the banquet, Olivia served glasses of sherbet on the balcony of the palace. This was rightly a job for a slave; but Justina’s residence was so understaffed as a consequence of the recent alarums that it barely functioned even with the help of pressganged labourers such as Olivia.
The young Qasaba girl did not object to her duties. Everyone was polite to her; or else ignored her, which at least was painless. She overheard a great deal of a great many fascinating conversations, and was not so overworked that she was unable to enjoy the view.
The view!
From the balcony, Olivia could see right across the rooftops of portside Injiltaprajura, across the Laitemata and the island of Jod, across Scimitar and the reefs beyond, and then out across the almost limitless sea.
The sea she studied little, for one eyeful is much like the next. Rather, it was the cityscape which attracted her attention in her idle moments. She was amazed to see how fast rebuilding was proceeding.
While studying the fruits of this enterprise, Olivia was surprised to notice a tarpaulin atop Xtokobrokotok. She had thought Marthandorthan had survived the dragon riots intact; but maybe fire had burnt away a part of the roof of Shabble’s warehouse. Or perhaps something was going on atop that roof, and the tarpaulin was there to shelter a secret rite of the Cult of the Holy Cockroach from infidel eyes.
While thinking this, Olivia saw something bright-flashing in the air above Xtokobrokotok. It was Shabble, spinning in a sun-dance which defied sunset.
Despite such defiance, the seasuck swallowed the sun; and the guests on the balcony made their way inside to the Grand Hall where the banquet was to take place. Unfortunately, like much of the palace, the Grand Hall had suffered thanks to riot and sundry insurrections. For instance, its marvellous glass chandeliers had been smashed beyond repair, and could not easily be replaced since there were no glassworkers of the requisite calibre on Untunchilamon. Indeed, there were no glassworkers at all on that island; and the chandeliers had been imported years before from Wen Endex, to which place they had probably come by way of trade, their ultimate origin doubtless being with the ogres of the Qinjoks.
Olivia had a good idea of what would happen at the banquet, for Chegory had told her all about his own experience of such ordeals. Thanks to Chegory’s accounts of the daunting glamour of the waiters and the intricate demands of protocol, Olivia was well prepared.
But . . .
If only Chegory could have been there to go with her!
Instead, he was trapped Downstairs with that horrible therapist thing.
If only they could rescue him!
But they couldn’t, not without the help of the Crab.
The only other way to get Chegory back would be to take prisoners to the therapist. But that was hardly possible, since at least two of those prisoners had sailed away. Yes, Guest Gulkan and Thayer Levant, gone from Injiltaprajura for good for all anyone knew. That still left the two wizards, but . . .
There was no catching the wizards.
But if only . . .
Olivia, in her innocence, imagined all would be set to rights if only she could be reunited with Chegory. The Ashdan lass still had a touching faith in the redemptive powers of love; and she lamented Chegory’s absence most bitterly. Lament, however, did not stop her from looking around at the assembling guests with a very lively curiosity.
Like many others, Olivia Qasaba’s greatest interest was in the priest who was doomed to endure the test by ordeal that very night. To her surprise, he looked most unhappy about it.
Was Jean Froissart truly unhappy?
Or did Olivia misread his expression?
Olivia misread not: Froissart was in a state of anguished apprehension. He was sorely afraid that something would go wrong that night. But he knew what would happen if he declined to attempt the ordeal. He would be beaten until his sodden corpse collapsed in a weltering mass of splattered blood and splintered bone. Would be a putrid corpse by this time tomorrow.
It was too much.
He ne
eded to sit down.
So, without thinking, he did just that.
Such was Froissart’s distress that, as he took his seat, the untutored observer might have been excused for imagining he was sitting on knives.
‘Sir,’ said a waiter.
‘You’re speaking to me?’ said Froissart.
‘I wish only to say, sir, that nobody is to seat themselves yet.’
‘Oh,’ said Froissart, in confusion; and stood.
Olivia saw his gaffe and smiled the smile of a polished sophisticate, the smile of a young lady who knows all about banquets and their protocols. Then, turning from Froissart (he was too old to hold her interest for long) she looked for the starvation cage Chegory had mentioned, but it was nowhere to be seen. Justina had had it removed lest it become (as well it might in such troubled times) a source of inspiration to the wicked.
‘Hello, Olivia,’ said Justina, finding her amidst the throng.
‘Hello,’ said Olivia Qasaba to her Empress. ‘Where am I sitting?’
‘On my left,’ said Justina. ‘Varazchavardan will be to my right.’
‘And to my left?’
‘My lawyer, Dardanalti. He’s a very civilized man, but he’ll probably be concentrating his attentions on the man to his left, who will be Judge Qil.’
Shortly, it was time for the banquet to begin. The customary preliminary ceremonies took place and then Justina made a special announcement:
‘There will be no drumming at banquet. Penalty for breach of this regulation will be death.’
This proclamation was greeted with general applause. Such were the tensions in the Grand Hall that all adults present were glad to have one thing they could agree upon unanimously: namely, that the delinquencies of the youthful ‘drumming’ cultists of Injiltaprajura were a threat to law, order and civilization.
Seeing how richly her proclamation was being rewarded Justina began to regret that she had not made it earlier. At this late date she finally realized how she might have been able to unite Injiltaprajura under her rule. A campaign to control, discipline, outlaw and punish the ‘drummers’ would have proved universally popular, and might - just might - have allowed Justina to start the process of unifying Untunchilamon against the threat from Aldarch the Third.
But it was too late for that now.
So . . .
So sit back and enjoy!
As Justina was still luxuriating in the applause, a little smoke from a mosquito coil eddied in her direction and stung her eyes. For how much longer would she retain the possession of those most delicate of the sensory portals? Not for long, not if something went wrong tonight. She might lose it all. Her hands, those fascinating instrumentalities of the will. Her—
But enough of such thoughts!
I can. I do. I dare.
And I will win!
So thought the Empress.
Then, like a child determined to fight, she fisted hands. Then caught herself doing just that, and smiled, unfolded her hands and soothed a couple of beads of sweat from her forehead.
‘Some pineapple, Vazzy?’ she said, offering a saucer of these titbits to the guest on her right.
‘Thank you,’ said Aquitaine Varazchavardan, taking a sample.
Varazchavardan was unhappy, as miserable and as fearful in his own way as was Jean Froissart. He felt -what was it? Not panic, exactly. But a merciless desolation.
This I may survive.
But . . .
We die even as we sit here.
A truism, for all know that nothing can slow the inevitable conquest by time. However, through much of life this underlying reality is masked by life’s trivia, or by work, the ultimate refuge of the sensitive mind.
While Varazchavardan was distressed, afflicted by both temporal fears and existential malaise, he hid his distress well. Such were his thespian skills that he looked totally unperturbed; looked, in fact, every bit the solemn Master of Law; looked slightly bored rather than grossly disturbed.
Elsewhere sat Manthandros Trasilika, his caution rapidly giving way to a grandeur of insolent ego as the banquet got underway and a little liquor got under his skin. Trasilika’s ebullience was not restrained by the fact that he was seated opposite Master Ek, who would surely prove himself a true representative of the institutionalized rage of Zoz the Ancestral should Jean Froissart fail the ordeal which awaited him that night.
Yes, no circumventions of mercy could prevent the inevitable processes of the law which would doom Jean Froissart if he failed tonight’s test. Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek would personally supervise Froissart’s destruction: and then would turn his attention to Manthandros Trasilika.
Already Ek was dreaming of the sly probes with which he would first excite Froissart’s nerves; of the exquisite crunch with which his pincers would mutilate the bones of the foreigner’s fingers; of the lush blood which would pour from the tongue of that child of Wen Endex as the fish-hooks tore free . . .
While Ek thus dreamt, he rolled himself a cigarette. He blew gently upon a slow-burning mosquito coil to persuade it into fiercer life, then lit his cigarette with the help of this heat source. Immediately a waiter hurried up to remonstrate with him.
The acolytes seated on either side of Master Ek -Paach Ch’ha Saat and Aath Nau Das - immediately became alert. Ch’ha Saat reached for the blade he had smuggled into the banquet, but Ek slapped down his hand before the foolish young man could precipitate a diplomatic incident.
‘What is it?’ said Ek to the waiter.
‘My lord,’ said the waiter, ‘I must ask you to extinguish that paper pipe, for smoking at banquet is strictly forbidden.’
Ek turned his green-flecked orange eyes upon the waiter and said:
‘You are in error. Judge Qil has ruled that the smoking to which you allude relates only to the consumption of opium, kif or grass clippings. That is his judgment, which you will find in the records of the case of the Imperium versus Odolo.’
‘But, sir—’
‘I am not smoking opium,’ said Ek. ‘Nor am I smoking kif, or grass clippings. I am smoking a rare and fragment herb known as tobacco, which is perfectly lawful. If you doubt me, then go and ask Judge Qil himself. That’s him
- there. Sitting by Dardanalti.’
The waiter retreated in confusion.
Perhaps you are asking yourself why this incident has found its way into a history as scholarly as this one. Had you acquaintance with waiters, you would not so ask; for you would know that the overbearing insolence of this breed is such that the public discomfiture of any one of their number is a matter well worth recording for posterity.
Anyway, there sat Master Ek, smoking and dreaming, and watching the banquet guests eat and drink, talk and gossip, or sit in silent speculation.
If the truth be told, there was rather much silent speculation that night. This banquet lacked the uproarious sense of abandonment which had characterized other such celebrations in Justina’s palace. While Juliet Idaho was drinking with a will, others merely sipped cautiously at their drinks, their minds given to fatigue or to forebodings of disaster.
Among those who were particularly subdued were Bro Drumel (captain of Justina’s palace guard) and Hostaja Torsen Sken-Pitilkin (builder of the imperial airship). Fear of torture was depressing the elegant Drumel, who nightly dreamt of the agony he expected to suffer ultimately at the hands of Aldarch the Third. For his own part, Sken-Pitilkin was near dead with fatigue. He was feeling his age, and was bowed down by the rigours of his airship building labours.
While the mood was subdued, the food was not, and an amazement of good things were served to the guests. There was a surpassing succulence of dragonlord salad, expensive stuff indeed as it is cut from the heart of the headgrowth of a coconut tree, and the tree necessarily dies as a result of this interference with its foliage. There was a wealth of lotus seeds soaked in honey. There was bottled abalone, fresh chicken livers, jellyfish soup, stuffed sea slugs and, of course, the inevitable
flying fish (braised, stewed and brewed up in a chowder).
While this feast was in progress, a messenger slipped up to Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun .Ek and whispered into the ear of the High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral.
Ek’s eyes did not widen, nor did he blanch. For Master Ek was an old man who had endured a great many shocks and knew how to keep calm in a crisis. Even so, there was a slight tremor in his voice when he conveyed the gist of the message to his acolytes Paach Ch’ha Saat and Aath Nau Das.
‘We have been warned,’ said Ek.
‘Of what?’ said Ch’ha Saat.
‘Shut up!’ said Nau Das. ‘He’s telling us, isn’t he?’
‘I only—’
‘Silence!’ hissed Ek. ‘Listen. The messenger brought me a warning. There will be violence tonight. We must be ready to kill. Things are coming to a crisis.’
‘Why?’ said Nau Das. ‘What is it?’
‘Our spies have uncovered a plot,’ said Ek. ‘The Thrug is planning something.’
‘What?’ said Nau Das
‘The Froissart thing will fail its test tonight. Then we will have to kill it. We will have no choice. It is a false priest, however accomplished its tongue.’
‘So we kill it,’ said Nau Das. ‘So what?’
‘The Thrug has another wazir on hand,’ said Ek. ‘What!’
‘Yes. A madman. From the Dromdanjerie.’
‘But who?’
‘Our sources give two possible candidates. One is Orge Arat.’
‘Him!’
‘Yes, him. The axe murderer.’
‘But that’s impossible. Too many people know who he is. And what.’
‘Yes, so he’s not the most likely choice. It’s more probably the other candidate.’
‘Who?’ ‘Rye Phobos,’ said Ek.
‘The name means nothing,’ said Nau Das.
‘Nothing to me, either,’ said Ch’ha Saat.
So Ek enlightened his acolytes, explaining what Phobos had done at the age of fourteen, when he had given good cause for his permanent incarceration.
‘That was thirty years ago,’ said Ek. ‘Nobody’s seen him since. Nobody outside the staff of the Dromdanjerie.’