The Wazir and the Witch coaaod-7

by Hugh Cook

  ‘And?’ said Drumel.

  ‘And the Crab would welcome a human form,’ said Justina. ‘If we provide it with such, it guarantees the safety of Injiltaprajura for ever.’

  ‘You mean it won’t if we don’t?’ said Drumel.

  ‘It is no secret that the Crab is too inhuman to demonstrate a sustained interest in human politics,’ said Justina. ‘It rules Injiltaprajura now, but it does so at a whim. It could lose interest in our island’s fate as early as tomorrow.’

  Bro Drumel could not help himself. He shuddered.

  ‘So,’ continued Justina briskly, ‘we have no time to lose. We must find the blackmailer, locate the Secret History, discover the truth about the organic rectifier, find that device if it is anywhere within finding range, take it to the Crab and win our safety.’

  ‘After using it ourselves,’ said Juliet Idaho.

  ‘For what?’ said Bro Drumel. ‘To become Crab ourselves?’

  ‘No,’ said Idaho. ‘To become immortal. Weren’t you listening?’

  ‘It… it’s rather a lot to take in at once. Have I got this right? You say — what? That Ek has some of this Secret History?’

  ‘Yes,’said Justina.

  ‘And the Cabal House?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then… do they know of this… this organic contraption?’

  ‘The Cabal House has most definitely seen written mention of the organic rectifier,’ said Justina. ‘They may know more of it than we do. Our spies are trying to find out. As for Master Ek, he has a part of the Injiltaprajuradariski in his possession, and may know more than we would like him to know.’

  ‘So,’ said Idaho. ‘Enough blathering. Let’s see how your blackmailer plans to get money off you.’

  The three then studied the blackmailer’s written demands.

  ‘As you see,’ said Drumel, ‘my blackmailer says I must pay a thousand dragons into this numbered account at theN’barta.’

  ‘N’barta?’ said Juliet Idaho.

  ‘The Narapatorpabarta Bank,’ said the Empress Justina.

  ‘Indeed, my lady,’ said Bro Drumel. ‘The same.’

  ‘And what was that other thing you called it?’ said Idaho.

  ‘The N’barta,’ said the Empress patiently.

  Idaho’s ignorance came as no surprise to the well-fleshed Justina. For a start, Idaho was a xenophobe who entered as little as possible into the life of Injiltaprajura. The Janjuladoola people were not the only ones capable of entertaining violent prejudices; and Idaho was as much a racist as the most bigoted son of Obooloo. Furthermore, Juliet Idaho was a stereotypical Yudonic Knight: which meant, amongst other things, that he was a financial simpleton. He would have nothing to do with banks, bank accounts, stockbrokers, shares, bonds, unit trusts or the future market; he drew his pay in bronze and gold and protected himself against all possibility of theft by spending it promptly in forthright debauch.

  ‘So,’ said Idaho slowly, ‘you pay to a number.’

  ‘A numbered account,’ agreed Bro Drumel.

  ‘But the account has a human attached to it, does it not?’ said Idaho.

  ‘Well,’ said Drumel hesitantly, ‘as I understand it-’

  ‘It does not,’ said the Empress crisply.

  ‘But it must!’ said Idaho. ‘Or how does the owner get at the cash? That’s the thing with banks, isn’t it? I’m not an expert, but as I understand it, money put into a bank account is not meant as a gift to a bank.’

  ‘The bank has a barrel,’ said Justina, who knew this system well. ‘Within the barrel, a thousand envelopes.

  Each envelope sealed. Each envelope holds two numbers. Each number unique, and each in length at least a dozen digits. You wish an account? Very well! You lay down ten dragons-’

  ‘Ten!’ said Idaho, scandalized.

  ‘Ten,’affirmed Justina.

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Idaho. ‘It’s a lucky dip.’

  ‘Right,’ said Justina. ‘Ten dragons, one envelope.’

  ‘I see,’ muttered Idaho. ‘A bloody banker’s trick, isn’t it? Nobod y knows who’s working which numbers.’ ‘Exactly,’ said Justina.

  And watched Idaho’s face. He was still puzzling through these revelations, trying to work out the necessary implications and ramifications. Justina had every confidence that he’d sort it out in his own good time, but Bro Drumel, not realizing the reason for her silence, intruded without invitation:

  ‘One number you bank with. You see? But both you must have to withdraw. Both you must have as well to know the account’s balance. They’ve master ledgers, you see, all made up with numbers in twins.’

  Justina was afraid this information overload would draw a roar of outraged incomprehension from the irascible Idaho. But the Yudonic Knight was sharp today, he was on form indeed:

  ‘So our bright friend Blackmail, he sends Drumel one number. So Drumel goes to the bank. A thousand dragons he gives to the bank. They look up their ledgers with numbers in twins. They write down the dragons by the side of the twin. Then bright spark Blackmail, in he comes the next day with numbers in doubles. Both numbers he gives to the bank, and the dragons they give him.’

  ‘Why,’ said Bro Drumel, amazed at such uncharacteristic penetration on the part of the battleman Idaho. ‘A single cast, yet your hook finds its fish.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Idaho. ‘And we find us friend Blackmail as well. Easy, isn’t it? He’s now but a number to us and the bank. But flesh he must have to cash numbers for dragons. He can’t come as a ghost, can he?’

  ‘There are ways and means,’ said Justina darkly.

  ‘But we could try,’ said Bro Drumel, keen to catch friend Blackmail if there was one chance in a thousand of doing it.

  ‘What do you mean, try?’ said Idaho, a touch of outrage at work in his voice. ‘It’s a sure thing, isn’t it?’ ‘Not,’ said Justina, ‘if ou r blackmailing friend leaves his deposits untouched till the island ha s fallen to Aldarch the Third.’

  ‘Then let’s grab in quick,’ said Idaho. ‘Grab the records, see what’s there to find.’

  ‘It’s just numbers,’ said Bro Drumel, unable to suppress his exasperation. ‘Just numbers, that’s all!’

  How could he get it through to this big lunk of a headlopper? A raid on the bank would give them numbers, no more. No name, no address, no identikit, nothing.

  ‘Listen, sklork,’ sasid Idaho, edging his words with murder. ‘I’m a killer, okay, but I’ve brains for brains, not dogshit. Understand?’

  ‘Dogshit!’ said the Empress Justina, pretending to be shocked and scandalized.

  ‘My lady,’ said Idaho, starting to get heated. ‘My apologies. But I won’t be patronized by this — this Janjuladoola thing!’

  ‘He does have a point, Julie my darling,’ said Justina gently. ‘We would win but numbers if we won with a raid.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Idaho. ‘And what are numbers but history, if money’s at stake? No doubt they’ll have dates with their ledgers. A date for the account’s genesis, for example.’

  ‘No,’ said Bro Drumel, pleased to win yet another point off this uncouth uitlander who so obviously had dogshit for brains, yet fearing that the loss of too many such points might make that same uitlander run amok in a berserker fury. ‘The accounts are undated, for who knows when they’re bought? They come from a barrel, remember. All envelopes jumbled. A choice of a thousand.’

  ‘Privacy perfect,’ said Justina in agreement.

  ‘Yes,’ said Idaho, reluctantly conceding the point. ‘But dates they’ll have for other things. Surely. Not when the account was opened, perhaps. But money gone in and money gone out. All signed for and dated. It has to be! Not by the customer, maybe, but their own staff must sign when they play with the gold. A banker’s as much a thief as the next man, is he not?’

  ‘Well,’ said Bro Drumel, annoyed to find that there was a certain amount of good sense to this. ‘That’s all very well, but-’

  ‘It’s a start,’ sai
d Justina decisively. ‘We’ll get on to the bank this instant.’

  ‘But,’ protested Drumel, ‘if all we can learn is deposits, disbursements and dates…’

  His voice trailed away as he began to understand the implications. Once they had the history of the blackmailer’s account, complete with the current balance and dates for all deposits and any disbursements, they would have a pattern on which they could exert their intelligence.

  A slim hope indeed, but far better than none.

  ‘There is also something else we could try,’ said Idaho. ‘What?’ said Justina.

  Then listened in silence as Idaho explained.

  ‘Why, Julie!’ said Justina in amazement. ‘That’s a brilliant idea! Why didn’t I think of that?’

  In truth, Idaho’s idea was so good that even Bro Drumel felt compelled to congratulate him.

  Their meeting was then effectively at an end, for all business had been dealt with. But Bro Drumel was not prepared to depart without asking one last question.

  ‘My lady,’ said Drumel. ‘Is the Crab… has the Crab really chosen to be wazir? Or is it…?’

  ‘The Crab is very much wazir,’ said the Empress Justina decisively. ‘Believe me, Brody. I’d never lie to you.’

  Thus spoke the Empress. And Bro Drumel believed the Thrug, and was comforted by her blatant lie.

  The truth was quite another matter entirely.

  The truth was that Chegory Guy and Olivia Qasaba had dared a desperate bluff, claiming that the Crab had declared itself wazir when in point of fact it had done no such thing.

  Each day, a great many state papers were carried across the harbour bridge to the island of Jod; and each day a stream of orders, commands, declarations and petitions were returned from that island. But the Crab played no part in this two-way flow. Instead, Injiltaprajura was effectively been ruled by the young Chegory Guy and the even younger Olivia Qasaba.

  With, it must be admitted, a little help from the wizards Pelagius Zozimus and Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin, a certain amount of assistance from the analytical engineer Ivan Pokrov and the algorithmist Artemis Ingalawa, and daily advice from the Empress Justina herself.

  Were this history to adopt the style of Greven Jing, it might say something like this:

  ‘So far, the innocent citizens of Injiltaprajura had no idea that power had been seized by two members of the dreaded drumming cult. But they would find out. Soon enough. For, nightly, the drums beat on the island of Jod, competing with the slabender frogs for the dominance of the night. And the hellish rhythms of the drums spoke of fear; and death; and torture; and things far worse still yet to come.’

  But this is a history, therefore it must avoid such artificial hysteria wherever possible. Let the truth be told. While Chegory Guy and Olivia Qasaba are known to have associated with ‘drummers’ from time to time, there is no evidence to show or suggest that they actually engaged in ‘drumming’ themselves. Even though Olivia once gave the Crab a drum of its own, there is no evidence to suggest that she used it herself (or that the Crab employed the instrument, though it did not reject the gift).

  Besides, the fear, death and torture which at that time threatened so many good citizens of Injiltaprajura owned nothing whatsoever to the fringe cult of ‘drumming’, but stemmed instead from the nature of the main stream political struggle.

  The historian apologizes to the reader for so stressing a point which has perhaps been adequately made earlier; but the nature of the final days of the rule of the Family Thrug has been so confused by the agitated fictionalizing of those who make a living from sensationalizing ‘cults’ and ‘cultists’ that the historian feels the point needs to be made yet again.

  Another thing must be made clear:

  While Chegory Guy and Olivia Qasaba played a vital role in the politics of that time and place, their roles owed everything to their association with the Crab, and nothing whatsoever to the cult of ‘drumming’; and the fact that the Crab allowed Chegory and Olivia to issue imperial decrees in the Crab’s name should not be allowed to obscure the fact that all the decisions made by those two infatuated children were largely influenced and controlled by the constant advice they received from the responsible adults on whose good counsel they relied and depended.

  Now this has been clarified:

  Read on!

  If you dare!

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The day after Bro Drumel’s meeting with the Empress Justina, the Narapatorpabarta Bank began to experience an unusual number of withdrawals. Juliet Idaho engineered this run on the bank, and did so in the simplest way imaginable. He made up a list of likely account holders (anyone rich enough to have money worth hiding from the Inland Revenue), visited the people on his list, and ordered each to bring him documented proof of a withdrawal from the N’barta. Or else!

  Drug dealers he visited, and brothel keepers; and certain other people who had suspiciously grand houses and no visible means of support.

  That was all it took to get things moving, for once rumour got wind of the rash of withdrawals no further engineering was needed. The run on the bank escalated rapidly as people by the dozen came in to clean out their numbered accounts. Idle drummers, drawn to the scene by the panic of honest citizens, began to beat their instruments in the street outside.

  Tok-tok-thuk!

  Tok-tok-thuk…

  In the bank, hidden behind the scenes but monitoring every transaction, Justina’s agents lurked in waiting. The Narapatorpabarta Bank permitted this intrusion because Juliet Idaho had kidnapped the bank manager’s wife, sons (five in number) and baby daughter.

  When results are required in a hurry, Yudonic Knights tend to give much more satisfaction than lawyers or other slow-working persuaders. There is a degree of danger in the use of Yudonic Knights, since their presence tends to escalate a minor diplomatic incident to an armed confrontation, or to make a full-scale war out of a street corner brawl. The Empress Justina, however, was in so much strife already that she failed to see how Idaho’s indiscretions could possibly make things worse.

  Thus the run on the N’barta began, and a great many numbers were brought to the bank’s counters in twins while Justina’s people waited patiently for the much-wanted bearer of the blackmail numbers to make his (her?) appearance.

  Meanwhile, another financial crisis was taking place on Untunchilamon, albeit a minor one. The officials of the Inland Revenue had learnt that Shabble’s Cult of the Holy Cockroach was tithing its adherents. The Cult was not demanding ten per cent of the congregation’s income. Or twenty. Or thirty, even. No. Shabble was going for the whole thing. A full 100 per cent.

  Agents from the Inland Revenue fronted up at the Xtokobrokotok to protest. Shabble’s lawyer, the redoubtable corpse-master Uckermark, gave them a stern lecture on the rights and freedoms of religion.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said an earnest revenue agent. ‘If people give all to religion, there’s nothing left to be taxed.’

  ‘Oh, I understand perfectly,’ said Uckermark.

  ‘You mean,’ said the revenue agent, warming to his task, ‘you understand this Shabble’s religion to be no more than a tax dodge.’

  ‘No more than a tax dodge?’ said a scandalized Uckermark. ‘That’s blasphemy.’

  ‘Blasphemy?’ said the revenue agent. ‘Against a cockroach? Who cares?’

  ‘The law cares!’ said Uckermark. ‘This is no ordinary cockroach. This is the Holy Cockroach. Furthermore, His Cult is a Protected Religion. It has the favour of the High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral. So to blaspheme against the Holy Cockroach is as bad as blaspheming against Zoz Himself. You’ve already said enough to endanger your life. I suggest you say no more unless you have urgent business to conduct with your ancestors.’

  The revenue agents lacked Uckermark’s specialized knowledge of ecclesiastical law, but research soon demonstrated that Uckermark was right. So the revenue agents had recourse to Nadalastabstala Banraithan-chumun Ek. The High Priest of Zoz
the Ancestral was far from pleased to see them, and even less pleased once they had explained their mission.

  ‘You petty money-grubbing omolkiomomooskipis,’ said Master Ek in open contempt. ‘Your grudgery is an open disgrace. It is fitting for worshippers to give freely to their faith.’

  ‘But,’ said a revenue agent, the same one who had argued valorously with Uckermark, ‘the Cult returns half of all monies to the donors as charity.’

  ‘That is only reasonable,’ said Master Ek. ‘If the donors have pauperized themselves by their generosity to their church they must surely have need of such charity.’

  ‘Then let them give less to start with,’ said the revenue agent. ‘For charity doles escape all taxes, You see, most of these people are in the upper income bracket. Their tax rate is set at nine dalmoons in the dragon. But as it is, they pay a dragon to the cult to earn five dalmoons in charity. Every dragon thus paid saves the giver four dalmoons, while the revenue wins not a damn in taxes.’ ‘It’s a laundering operation,’ said another agent. ‘Explain it to me again,’ said Master Ek.

  It was a great many years since he had bothered to add or subtract. He had accountants to do that kind of drudgery.

  The revenue agents were pleased with Ek’s enthusiasm for enlightenment and gladly assisted with his continuing education. Master Ek proved to be exceptionally interested in the details; indeed, the sharp-eyed priest had smoked his way through three cigarettes before the agents were finished.

  ‘Now I understand,’ said Ek at last. ‘As a reward for their devotion, the worshippers have their effective tax rate cut from ninety per cent to fifty, thus saving themselves four dalmoons in the dragon.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said one of the agents.

  Ek lit a fourth cigarette, drew deeply on that source of narcotic delight, blew a smoke ring then said:

  ‘You have my gratitude. You have revealed to me a cure for the growing impiety of Injiltaprajura. What serves for a Protected Religion will serve for the Source.’ One particularly young and impressionable revenue agent, unable to control himself, gave vent to a moan of anguish.