by Hugh Cook
‘Hello there,’ cooed the Empress Justina, with a sly smile upon her lips. ‘What can we do for you today, young man?’ Varazchavardan was not young, otherwise he might have lost control of his temper there and then. Instead, the albino tic sorcerer cleared his throat and said, as banquet protocol compelled him to:
‘My most honoured lady, as Master of Law I ask on behalf of myself and of your assembled guests that we be excused the ritual of confession.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Justina. ‘What do you think, Chegory'? Should we spare the man confession?’
This comment most naturally brought the attention of the Master of Law to bear on young Chegory Guy, who could but stare helplessly at Varazchavardan. The terrified Ebrell Islander looked for all the world like a dormouse surprised by a cobra.
All Chegory could think of was the scene Downstairs where the sorcerer had fought his way free from the Malud marauders who had taken him prisoner. Varazchavardan had sent fire shooting outwards from his body, with dual consequences. First, the elderly pirate holding a knife to Varazchavardan’s throat had let him go. Second, the liquor with which the floor was awash had ignited, causing the sorcerer to be almost instantly engulfed in flames. Obviously, he had survived.
Equally obviously, to judge from the look he gave young Chegory, he remembered.
‘Well, Chegory?’ said Justina gently. ‘Do we spare him confessions or not?’
‘Sp- spare me,’ said the terrified Chegory. ‘Please!’
‘He spares you,’ said Justina to Varazchavardan. ‘Isn’t that nice of him? One day, we must spare you not. I’d be most interested in hearing your confessions, Vazzy darling. Most interested.’
Aquitaine Varazchavardan concealed his intense dislike of the insulting diminutive with which the Empress Justina had addressed him. Instead, he bowed very low, then said: ‘My lady’s wisdom is exceeded only by her personal grace and beauty.’
Then Varazchavardan bowed lower yet, then turned about-face. As the Master of Law began to walk away, Justina offered her ape a bit of coconut.
‘Vazzy,’ she said, pitching her voice to carry. Varazchavardan turned, only to see Justina’s ape accepting the proffered delicacy from the fingers imperial. Justina smiled sweetly at Varazchavardan. He stared back. If looks could kill, the Empress Justina would have been crisped to the bone then and there. If looks could kill, there would have been instant genocide on Untunchilamon. Sailors would have screamed aloud as they met a mortal end on ships far out upon the striding seas. A swathe of devastation would have cut its way across entire continents. Princes in cities far distant would have fallen from thrones of glory with blood by the bucketful vomiting from their throats. In caves far deep within the mountains huge dragons would have roared in strenuous agony, then kicked in pain and rage, and then expired. Such was the look which Varazchavardan bestowed upon Justina.
The Empress smiled again, every bit as sweetly as before, and Varazchavardan turned and stalked away. Whereupon Justina’s ape picked up a mosquito coil and hurled it at the retreating Master of Law. It hit Varazchavardan in the back, provoking a little tittering from some of the less sophisticated wits sitting at table, but the wonderworker ignored the onslaught and walked on as if nothing had happened.
‘Now now,’ said Justina, in tones of mild reproof. ‘That’s very naughty, Vazzy. You mustn’t do things like that.’ Whereupon Vazzy grinned prodigiously, hooted thrice, then began to devour the saucer of pineapple chunks which the Empress Justina pushed his way. Meanwhile, an aloof waiter promenaded into the half-open square between the three long banquet tables, retrieved the still-smoking mosquito coil then retired with the offending object.
It is to be noted that albino tic apes are very rare and hard to come by, that Aquitaine Varazchavardan had long been in Justina’s service before she acquired her pet, and that the privilege of naming the animal had been hers and hers alone. Chegory, who was ignorant of this, and innocent enough to presume the confusion of names to be a coincidence, had nevertheless perceived Varazchavardan’s anger. Indeed, he had experienced a (possibly psychosomatic) chest pain as he saw Varazchavardan’s clear-writ wrath, Chegory, in his ignorance, could only presume that it was the provocation of his own presence which had so angered the Master of Law, and that even now Varazchavardan would be planning a special doom for the hapless Ebrell Islander who had so excited his anger. He turned to Uckermark, meaning to ask him for advice, but the corpse master was intent on the over-perfumed woman to his right, a luscious young thing who was smattering away to him as if he were her lover true.
‘Chegory,’ said Justina. ‘Your wine. You haven’t even touched it yet.’
‘I–I-’
‘You’re not going to refuse your medicine, are you? Be a good boy. Drink it up. There’s plenty more where that came from.’
This was tantamount to an invitation to get roaring drunk. Indeed, to judge from the speed at which fellow guests were demolishing their prescription medicine, and the alacrity with which their empty glasses were being refilled, such behaviour would have passed without remark. Nevertheless, Chegory sipped most cautiously at his own glass.
‘You look worried, my dear,’ said Justina. ‘What is it?’ ‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Chegory.
‘Not the wine, I hope?’
‘No, no, it’s — it’s lovely wine.’
‘Then… the table things, Chegory? You’re not worried about those, are you? First will be soup, that’s what the spoons are for. Then a meat dish. For that we use stabs, then — ah, but here’s the soup! I do hope it’s all right. It’s the special creation of my new chef, you know. Pelagius Zozimus, that’s his name.’
‘Zozimus!’ said Chegory desperately, seizing his opportunity and plunging right in. ‘There’s, there’s something I have to tell you about him. He’s not a chef at all, he’s an elf, an elven lord, that’s what he is, Downstairs, I saw him Downstairs with sworders with him, all in bright armour he was, really, truly, believe me.’
‘Oh Chegory!’ said Justina, waving away his desperation to the tune of a tinkling laugh. ‘You do amuse me! An elf? Chegory darling, there are no such things as elves. An elven lord, with an army in armour Downstairs? A delightful conceit, my dearest, but save it for my amusement till I’ve had a bit more to drink.’
Thus Chegory’s opportunity to denounce Zozimus arrived, was seized, and came to nothing. His soup was set before him and he began to eat, sampling each spoonful of the nutritious broth with the same caution he had used when trying the wine.
‘We do have foodtasters, you know,’ said Justina, observing his hesitation. ‘Here, give me that.’ So saying, she exchanged bowls with him. ‘There! You trust that? It’s meant for the lips imperial. Eat, my darling! You want to keep your strength up, don’t you?’
‘Yes, my lady,’ said Chegory.
Then blushed with such fury that his embarrassment visibly overwhelmed the native red of his skin. Justina laughed uproariously, then drank of her wine, then coughed, choked and almost died, for she was laughing still as she drank.
Chegory got through the soup (very good flying fish soup, thickened with sea urchin roe). Then the soup bowls were whisked away and plates of mixed meats materialised in their place. The chef had excelled himself. On Chegory’s plate there were bits of cat, dog, monkey, rat, goat, banana frog, crow, vulture, groper, gecko and lizard. His mouth watered. His hand automatically reached for the stab. But just before his fingers fell on the lethal steel he remembered — and wrenched his hand away as if it had been burnt.
Justina’s stab was already at work. It flashed to left and to right as she hunted succulent fragments of fine-chopped luxury. She popped her first skewer-load into her mouth, sucked it off, then chewed. She was sweating as she ate, for she was a very fleshy woman, and both air and meat were hot. Chegory was sweating also. He had yet to touch his meat.
‘You have many girlfriends, I suppose,’ said Justina, pausing between skewer-loads.
�
�None at the moment,’ said Chegory, fearing Olivia Qasaba might be brutally disposed of if Justina learnt of her existence.
‘None?’ said Justina. ‘What a tragedy! Young women have no taste. No taste at all. Or is it your work that puts them off?’
‘Work?’
‘In the corpse shop.’
Only then did Chegory remember that the Empress Justina believed him to be apprenticed to the corpse master Uckermark. She thought he worked all day with bowel and brain, with the stench of corpses unclean, stuffing, embalming or dismembering as required.
‘The, um, well, job, it’s a job, okay, no job no money no food and all that, but, ah, oh well, I suppose I–I wish the people weren’t so, so… well, so dead.’
Too fast, too fast, he was talking too fast, making a fool of himself. What would the Empress think? He must slow himself, slow down, one word to a mouthful.
‘Pah!’ said Justina. ‘You dislike the dead? Then what are we eating? Why, dead meat! Dead frogs, dead fish, dead birds. Corpses. Carcasses. Are we not animals? With the appetites of animals? The desires? The lusts?’
‘Some of us,’ said Chegory carefully.
‘You’re not a castrato, are you?’
This, coming from the Empress, was a joke. She had already perused Chegory’s medical file. She knew as much about him as a wife of ten years — or more. But Chegory thought the query was in earnest.
‘As it happens,’ said Chegory, ‘no, I’m not a… a castrato.’
He was feeling more and more uncomfortable. Once more he wanted to flee. He was intensely aware of Justina dragonising him. As if he were prey.
‘A vegetarian, then?’ said Justina, since Chegory was still abstaining from his food.
‘No, not that either,’ said Chegory.
Then realised his mistake. By pleading vegetarianism he could have excused himself from tackling the meat dish which he must now surely feed upon lest he cause offence. He plucked a piece of banana frog from his plate. Munched it.
‘Not with your fingers, Chegory darling,’ said Justina. ‘Use the stab. That’s what it’s there for. To eat meat.’
‘You’ll have to excuse him,’ said Uckermark, momentarily disengaging his attention from the coquette to his right. ‘He’s not versed in his table manners.’ ‘Ah, but we’ll teach him,’ said Justina. ‘We’ll teach him… everything!’
Corpse master and Empress exchanged a laugh. Then the coquette claimed Uckermark once more and Chegory was on his own.
‘That stab,’ said Justina impatiently. ‘Pick it up!’
Chegory' hesitated still.
‘Here,’ she said, picking up his stab and forcing it into his reluctant fingers. ‘Hold it like that, see? Now stick it into the meat. There! Easy, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Chegory.
Blurting out the word in blurred tones but a heartbeat from tears or panic. He hunched his head down, his shoulders up, desperately trying to make himself a more difficult target for the decapitating scimitar he expected to strike at any moment.
‘Try it again,’ said Justina in her most encouraging voice.
Chegory complied.
‘Good, good!’ said the Empress. ‘You see? You can do it if you try. Very well! Now feed me!’
‘Now…?’'
‘Feed me! You know! Stab in the meat, meat in my mouth. Come on, Chegory darling. It’s fun!’
‘I… I can’t. I mustn’t!’
‘Of course you can! Of course you must! It’s an imperial command, isn’t it? We can’t have high treason at table, can we now? Come on, Chegory! Stab in meat, meat in my mouth! Let’s do it by the numbers, shall we? Number one, stab in meat.’
Chegory tried to obey. But his hand refused to obey his will. So the Empress Justina closed her own hot, sweating fingers about his hand and guided his stab into a piece of meat. Then pulled Chegory’s stab-holding hand to her mouth. She sucked off the meat. Grinned at him.
‘Easy, isn’t it? You do it now.’
Hesitantly, he complied. He raised cold steel to the mouth of the Empress. She opened her lips, revealing a dangling uvula, a tongue, a dozen ragged brown teeth, a glistening cavity where food fragments danced amidst saliva. Her lips accepted a piece of dog liver from his stab.
Then Justina skewered a titbit from her own plate and fed it to Chegory. He returned the compliment. They executed this joint manoeuvre again. Then again.
‘My! What white fangs you have!’ said Justina.
‘I chew pandanus,’ said Chegory.
‘Ah yes,’ said Justina. ‘That’s the way to keep them in order. Pandanus in plenty — and stay way from the sugarcane.’
‘Yes, my lady,’ said Chegory.
‘Call me Juzzy,’ said Justina. ‘And I’ll call you… Cheggy. You like that name?’
‘I… um… yes, my lady. Cheggy will do fine.’
‘Splendid!’ said Justina, and opened her mouth to accept another fragment of meat.
Chegory was starting to get confident. He glanced at the scimitarists. They had not moved. The muscle men were still standing immobile, the points of their razorblade weapons still resting on blocks of cork.
‘That’s good,’ said Justina, as Chegory fed her once again. ‘You’re getting the hang of it. Now faster!’
‘Faster?’
‘Yes, faster! You know. Speed, Chegory, speed! Fun!’
Chegory did not think it fun at all, but nevertheless hastened his fingers. Justina accelerated her own hand in response. From plate to mouth flew their stabs. In — out! In — out! Swift as lightning their dancing steel flashed. Cat meat! Frog meat! Poultry! Dog! To lips to mouth to lips to Home went Chegory’s steel!
‘Aagh!’
The Empress Justina wrenched her head back.
Chegory had stabbed her in the lower lip.
‘You cut me!’ said Justina.
Chegory dropped his stab. The bloodstained steel tinkled to his plate. The Empress Justina was clutching her lip. Chegory could not breathe, or speak, or move. Slowly the Empress withdrew her bloodstained hand. She turned her terrible eyes upon young Chegory Guy. She announced his doom:
‘You must kiss it better.’
‘I must…?’
The entire banqueting hall was silent. Even the waiters were watching. Justina placed one fleshy hand round the back of Chegory’s neck and drew him toward her. He could not resist. A roar of applause erupted from the guests as Chegory’s lips touched those of his Empress. Still she pulled him on and in. Hot and wet was her mouth, hot and wet, her tongue forcing its way into his own oral cavity as her hand fondled his neck in a rhythm suggestive of greater pleasures yet to come.
Then, mercifully, she released him.
‘Ah!’ she said. ‘Pure pleasure, is it not?’
‘Indeed, my lady,’ said Chegory, hot and shaken, sweating and trembling, dazed and bestaggered.
‘Juzzy,’ said the Empress Justina. ‘Have you forgotten already, Cheggy- my love?’
‘I… I’m sorry, uh, Juzzy.’
‘That’s better! But don’t forget again!’
Chegory^ promised most sincerely that he would not forget — and the banquet proceeded.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When the meat dish was finished Chegory got to his feet and retreated to the sanctuary of the latrines. He had drunk but a third of a glass of wine yet felt decidedly unsteady on his feet. His sweat had overwhelmed the perfumes with which he had been so liberally annointed after his bath. This banqueting was hard work!
In the latrines he was long fumbling with the codpiece built into the unfamiliar silks in which he had been dressed. At last he retrieved his anatomy from the complexities of his new garments. Then leaned his head against the cold marble of the wall as he pissed into a bloodstone gutter. Uckermark joined him while he was so engaged.
‘How’s it going?’ said the corpse master as he pulled out his shlong.
‘That woman’s going to rape me,’ groaned Chegory.
&n
bsp; ‘No!’ said Uckermark, pissing prodigiously. ‘You’re imagining things. The Empress? With you? Who do you think you are?’
Chegory looked sideways at Uckermark and saw the corpse master was grinning.
‘Help me!’ said Chegory, desperately.
‘You really want help?’ said Uckermark. ‘What’s it worth?’
‘My undying gratitude,’ said Chegory.
‘Very well then,’ said Uckermark, buttoning up his codpiece. ‘I’ll tell you two things which might help you a lot.’
‘What?’
‘First, you’re supposed to enjoy it. So whatever happens, show some enthusiasm! All right? Good!’
‘And second…?’
‘She likes to be licked,’ said Uckermark, washing his hands in the flow of water outgulping from a golden goldfish.
‘Licked?’ said Chegory.
‘You understand, don’t you?’
‘I’m a dumb Ebby,’ said Chegory. ‘I don’t understand anything.’
‘Then listen…’ said Uckermark.
The gist of his account is [Here a ten-thousand-word disquisition on a certain subject has been deleted on the orders of the Chief Censor. Need we state the reason?]
— and thus bring the woman to a pitch of delight unobtainable by any other means.
‘Well,’ said Chegory doubtfully, once he had received this detailed intelligence. ‘Well… thank you, I suppose.’ ‘Relax,’ said Uckermark, slapping him on the back. ‘You’ll be all right once she gets you into bed.’
‘But — but — there’s uh, um, there’s impotence, I might be impotent, or, ah, pregnancy, what if someone gets pregnant, or, or, you know, venereal diseases, she, she’s…’ ‘She commands every scimitar within this fair city of Injiltaprajura,’ said Uckermark calmly. ‘That’s what you’ve got to worry about! Not planting an egg in her womb or picking up some disease which might kill you five years from now, or then again might not. Come! We delay!’ With that he hustled Chegory back to the feast. The hapless Cheggy hesitated at the fateful portal of the banqueting hall, then, knowing he had no alternative, plunged into the by-now-drunken uproar and rejoined his beloved Juzzy at table.