The Wazir and the Witch coaaod-7

by Hugh Cook

  Watching Ek smoke, Froissart briefly wondered whether the old man was a dragon in disguise. Then he dismissed the notion. He tried to speak, but found it an effort. Ek’s silence was of such intensity that it took courage to venture to breach it.

  ‘My lord,’ said Froissart, finding that courage, ‘before I go, I wish to have leave to make a petition.’

  Ek said nothing, so Froissart rushed on:

  ‘Might I possibly be excused from tonight’s trial by ordeal?’

  Did the quality of Ek’s silence change? Froissart fancied it did. And the change was not for the better. Frankly, Froissart was afraid. Afraid? He was terrified. Of Ek, and the murderous potential of the High Priest’s powers. Of Justina, too. Could he trust the Thrug? He didn’t think so. Her assurances seemed sincere, but… no, he couldn’t trust her. Even if she was committed to his survival, there was so much that could go wrong. He might get hurt. He might get killed on the spot.

  Ek sighed.

  ‘Jean Froissart,’ said Ek, ‘you disappoint me. Untunchilamon urgently needs the rule of a wazir. But we cannot take chances. Your Trasilika must prove himself true. If you will not venture to provide proof by enduring trial by ordeal, then there is another way. You could drink of a formula made by compounding zen with certain other substances which you surely know as well as I do.’ Ek paused, then continued: ‘The formula of which I speak is renowned as a truth drug.’

  ‘I regret,’ said Froissart, ‘that poison was one of the many dangers which assailed both Trasilika and myself in Bolfrigalaskaptiko. We both have a resistance to the compound to which you allude.’

  ‘How unfortunate,’ said Ek. ‘That being so, do you still wish to be excused from your trial by ordeal?’

  Froissart hesitated.

  Then:

  ‘Yes,’ said Froissart. ‘I do ask to be so excused.’

  ‘You wish to be excused the trial by ordeal,’ said Ek, with infinite weariness.

  ‘I do,’ said Jean Froissart.

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘Because I have proved myself true by my knowledge of doctrine. I have proved myself in interrogation.’

  ‘You have shown yourself to be possessed of a good memory,’ said Ek. ‘Nothing more. Your request is denied. Go!’

  Froissart went.

  Once out in the street, he felt a spasm of wrenching pain shock through his chest. He clutched the sweating flesh. Surely he was going to die.

  The stones of the street sighed and chirruped. Purple light squeaked as it escaped from cracks in the fabric of reality. The sky swelled, buckled, burst and reformed. Froissart knew exactly what was happening to him. Ek must have slipped him a truly massive dose of oola. And now the stuff was having an (albeit delayed) effect.

  Oola?

  This concoction, otherwise known as babble-tongue, has as its main active ingredient the dreaded drug zen. Oola has some reputation as a truth drug, but its main effect is to cause hallucinations (and, sometimes, madness).

  The chemical regime which Froissart had followed in Bolfrigalaskaptiko (he had spoken truthfully to Ek about this matter) gave him some partial protection against the effects of the oola he had consumed. Though the sun pulsated and his feet appeared to have turned into buckets of slugmeat, he nevertheless managed to struggle up Goldhammer Rise. A beggar nagged along behind him until at last, hoping to be free of this encumbrance, Froissart dispensed a coin.

  A coin?

  A dragon!

  Once in possession of that golden disk, the beggar redoubled his efforts, determined not to let go of this source of profit. Other beggars joined the procession. And, when Froissart refused to dispense further largesse (he had meant to give the first man a damn, not a dragon) they mugged him.

  Froissart, somewhat the worse for his mugging, struggled uphill to Lak Street then began the weary trek to Pokra Ridge. He was devastated. Manthandros Trasilika had assured him their takeover of Untunchilamon would be easy, so easy. And so it should have been! They deserved such a reward for faithfully serving Aldarch the Third all through the years of Talonsklavara. Instead, their profit-taking adventure was turning into a living nightmare.

  Meanwhile, Master Ek was meditating alone.

  Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek had been sitting in solitude in the Temple of Torture ever since Froissart’s departure.

  He was puzzling over a conundrum.

  Jean Froissart seemed to doubt his ability to survive the trial by ordeal. But this was strange. If Froissart was not sure of his ability to pass such a test, why had he volunteered for it in the first place?

  Ek had yet to puzzle out the answer to this when one of his acolytes intruded upon the masterly solitude, claiming to have some new and important intelligence.

  ‘Of what?’ said Ek.

  ‘Of Shabble’s plans.’

  ‘What is it that Shabble plans?’ said Ek.

  ‘A — a festival,’ said the acolyte.

  ‘Festival?’

  ‘On the day of the Festival of Light. Shabble means to sacrifice a loaf of cassava bread and two fruit flies to the greater glory of the Holy Cockroach.’

  ‘That — that monstrous bubble!’ said Ek.

  As invective goes, this was scarcely effective, and surely it represents a totally inadequate response to the blasphemy which Shabble planned to perpetrate. But Ek was labouring under a difficulty, for it is difficult to curse Shabble when the bright and bouncing imitator of suns lacks a face which can be insulted or ancestors who can be denigrated.

  Nevertheless, let no mistake be made. Master Ek was furious, and determined then and there to have a reckoning with Shabble one of these days; or, if not with Shabble, then with Shabble’s priests, lawyers, advisers and congregation.

  When Ek’s anger at last diminished, he started thinking of practical ways in which Shabble could be punished in Shabbleselfs own person, and he came up with Nothing.

  For Shabble, my dears, cannot be hurt by anyone or anything as puny as Master Ek; and, to the great increase of his rage, Ek had to acknowledge as much. By way of compensation, Ek began devising the special tortures with which he would destroy Jean Froissart once Froissart had failed his trial by torture.

  Did some psychic communication take place?

  Did Froissart feel Master Ek’s enmity, despite the distance between them?

  This question cannot be answered with any degree of certainty; nevertheless, it must be recorded that a spasm of especial pain fractured Jean Froissart’s chest as Ek planned Froissart’s destruction.

  By that time, the child of Wen Endex was in the pink palace atop Pokra Ridge, beginning an audience with the Empress Justina.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Justina, seeing pain writ clear across Froissart’s face.

  ‘Yes,’ said Froissart. ‘It’s just a — indigestion or something.’

  ‘You must see my physician,’ said Justina. ‘Koskini Reni, he’s an amazing man. He’s a prescription for everything, if not always a cure. I’ll give you an introduction as soon as our business is finished. But — now that we’re talking about business, what is it you want?’

  ‘To confirm our arrangements for tonight,’ said Froissart.

  ‘Come now,’ said Justina. ‘We’ve been through all that. I’ll give you a magic salve to let you hold the heated iron with ease. There won ’t be any pain, no pain at all.’ ‘My confidence would be increased if I could — if I could see this magic salve.’

  ‘Very well then,’ said Justina.

  She delved into her handbag and rummaged about within for some time, at last producing a small oval box. She opened it. And displayed a smear of green grease.

  ‘This is my magic salve,’ said Justina. ‘It will allow you to pick up the iron even when it’s hot enough to make water boil. Or hotter.’

  Froissart was reassured to actually sight the magic salve which had been promised to him. Still:

  ‘My confidence,’ he said, ‘would be enhanced by a test of such power
.’

  ‘But,’ said Justina, ‘there is only enough for one use.’ ‘Then,’ s aid Froissart, struggling to retain his composure, ‘perhaps you could reassure me by telling me the provenance of this substance. Where it c omes from, for example. And what guarantees you have of its purity.’

  ‘I made it myself,’ said Justina. ‘Surely you could have guessed that yourself. I’m a witch, as you know.’

  ‘I know no such thing,’ said Froissart, ‘hence am inclined to doubt the powers of your magic salve. If you made it, why can’t you make more?’

  ‘I can, I can,’ said Justina. ‘But the blood of a basilisk is an essential ingredient for such cookery, and Injiltaprajura has not seen a basilisk for the last six years.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ said Froissart. ‘But if you have powers of witchcraft, you can prove them to me here and now. Somehow. If not by making a fire-salve, then by some other method. I need proof. Proof if I am to believe.’

  ‘You’ve proof already,’ said Justina. ‘After all, you brought a warrant from Aldarch Three commanding my execution on that account. A witch, said the warrant. I saw it myself. That’s why I was to be killed.’

  ‘True,’ said Froissart. ‘But, by a witch, we usually mean merely a woman who has intruded on the realms of men.’ ‘And what,’ said Justin a, ‘be those realms?’ Whereupon Froissart, who had a didactic bent, sa id: ‘War, law, business-’

  ‘Enough!’ said Justina, cutting him off. ‘You need proof? Very well. I will give you a demonstration of a witch’s magic. Here I have three glasses. Do you want to handle them?’

  ‘Please,’ said Froissart.

  They were squat drinking glasses. Not wine glasses or tea glasses, or soup glasses. Just ordinary water glasses. (Though here the word ‘ordinary’ applies to those beakers as they were seen by Froissart, who had long been acquainted with wealth, and as they were perceived by Justina, who used them daily in the palace imperial. To the hovel-dwellers of Lubos or the slumland children of Marthandorthan, any item made of glass would have seemed the most extravagant wonder imaginable.)

  ‘Well,’ said Justina. ‘Do you believe I can cause these glasses to fill themselves up with wine?’

  ‘By pouring wine from a bottle, yes.’

  ‘No, silly boy! By magic. Do you believe I can fill them with wine by magic?’ ‘Frankly, no,’ said Froissart.

  ‘Then watch,’ said Justina, placing the three glasses on the table.

  The vitric beakers sat there in a row, the end glasses inverted, the central glass the right way up. Justina made three mystic passes over the glasses. Then watched them as a scorpion watches the dung beetle it plans to claim as its victim.

  ‘Well,’ said Froissart, ‘I see no wine.’

  ‘The operation of magic takes time,’ whispered the Empress. ‘Time. And silence. Wait!’

  But Froissart saw nothing out of the ordinary. Only three glasses sitting on a table. He said as much.

  ‘Very well,’ said the Empress, briskly. ‘Now watch this. I take hold of two glasses, thus. Two, note, not one. I flip-flop these two. Then I take my hands off.’

  The Empress Justina had flip-flopped the middle glass and one of the end glasses. In consequence, the central glass was now inverted and one of the end glasses the right way up.

  ‘You see?’ said Justina triumphantly.

  ‘I’m not blind,’ said Froissart. ‘But-’

  ‘But watch!’

  The Empress took hold of the two inverted glasses and flip-flopped them so they were both standing the right way up. All three glasses were now standing the right way up.

  ‘There!’ she said. ‘I flip-flopped two at once.’

  ‘So?’ said Froissart in bewilderment. ‘So what’s this got to do with wine?’

  Surely the heat had got to the imperial head.

  ‘That comes later,’ said Justina. ‘This is magic enough to be going on with. Two flip-flops, that’s what I did. You saw? By flip-flopping two glasses at a time I managed to make all three stand up the right way.’

  ‘But — but this is lunacy!’ said Froissart. ‘That’s not magic! That’s not even a trick.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ said Justina.

  She flip-flopped the end two glasses.

  ‘See? Two inverted, one the right way up. I flip-flopped two glasses thrice to get two down, one up.’

  ‘So?’ said Froissart.

  Justina rearranged the glasses.

  ‘You try,’said she.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Froissart. ‘I outgrew kindergarten years ago.’

  ‘Indulge me,’ said Justina, a smile upon her lips. ‘Indulge me. You might be surprised.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Froissart irritably, reaching for the nearest glass.

  Justina slapped down his hand.

  ‘First, the rules,’ said she. ‘Do it as I did it. Two glasses at a time. You must flip-flop both. After three such manipulations, you must have two glasses inverted, one upright. Two down, one up.’

  ‘Child’s play,’ said Froissart scornfully.

  In his youth, Jean Froissart had sat for the competitive examinations which controlled entry to the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association. He had failed to win a place in that institution, but nevertheless his marks had been high. His marks had proved him, beyond a doubt, to be a Certified Genius.

  So it should be — easy?

  There was something wrong here.

  Experimentally, Froissart tumbled two glasses. Then another two. Then He couldn’t see how to get all three upright.

  ‘I made a mistake,’ he said.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Justina. ‘We’ll try again.’

  And she put them back to the starting position. Froissart tried ag ain.

  Failed.

  ‘The third time,’ said Justina. ‘The final time. Try. But think before you try.’

  Froissart stared at the glasses.

  ‘Two at a time,’ he said. ‘Down to be up and up to be down. Three times.’

  ‘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.