The Wazir and the Witch coaaod-7

by Hugh Cook

  ‘Yes,’ said she. ‘Your ship is gone, and your guards are no longer yours to command. You’re helpless. This is what will happen. The soldiers will pretend to mutiny against Master Ek. Under my command, they will loot and pillage. They will also chop off your head. Then Master Ek will make himself wazir of Untunchilamon. Whether you are a fraud or a real wazir appointed by Aldarch the Third makes no difference, for Ek himself will be innocent of all violence against your person. But I-’

  ‘My lady,’ said Log Jaris in vehement protest, ‘it is unwise to spill our secrets to this thing. His life is doomed so-’

  ‘Quiet!’ said Justina, doing her best to pretend she was angry with the bullman’s interjection. ‘As I was saying, Ek will appear innocent, for all the blame will fall on me.’

  ‘Then you’ll be killed,’ said Trasilika.

  ‘Sharked in the lagoon,’ said Froissart. ‘Or chopped into catmeat.’

  ‘No,’ said Justina sweetly. ‘I will escape to the north and live happily ever after in the court of Jal Japone. I have a standing invitation from that formidable warlord. He will give me shelter whenever I want for as long as I want. Master Ek has promised me safe passage out of Injiltaprajura, you see, as soon as you are dead.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ said Trasilika desperately. ‘You can’t trust him!’

  ‘I have to,’ said Justina. ‘I have no alternative. Unless I can recover the organic rectifier.’

  ‘The what?’ said Trasilika.

  ‘The organic rectifier,’ said Justina. ‘It is a device which can c hange the form of the flesh one inhabits. It could make a man into a c rab. Or a crab into a man.’ ‘And you think that would somehow solve yo ur problems?’ said Trasilika. ‘How so?’

  ‘Because,’ said Justina, ‘with this organic rectifier, I could change the Crab of the island of Jod into a human. Once so changed, the Crab in gratitude would grant me all I wished. It would extend its mercy to you, I’m sure, if you were to help us recover this organic rectifier.’

  ‘Where is it?’ said Trasilika.

  ‘Ek has it,’ said Justina. ‘It is in the Temple of Torture.’

  ‘Then he’ll never give it up!’ said Trasilika. ‘Not if he knows how important it is.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Justina. ‘But he doesn’t know. He only suspects. I have told him the thing is a skavamareen, an ancient musical instrument. He doesn’t quite believe me, but he doesn’t necessarily disbelieve, either.’

  ‘So… so what do you suggest?’ said Trasilika.

  Justina smiled. And this time there was nothing feigned about that smile.

  She had successfully convinced Manthandros Trasilika that she was Master Ek’s ally, and that Ek intended to use her as an instrument for perpetrating the perfect murder, the victim of this murder to be Trasilika himself. She had created the illusion she needed to give her political leverage. And now she was using this leverage to force Trasilika to make an alliance with her against Master Ek.

  ‘I suggest,’ said Justina, ‘that you order the organic rectifier to be released.’

  ‘Ek will not release it,’ said Trasilika positively. ‘If he thinks there’s one chance in a thousand that the thing could make the Crab into a human, he’ll never let it go.’

  ‘Even so,’ said Justina, ‘we should try. For there is at least one chance in a thousand that Ek might yield the thing to us without a fuss. In which case, our problems will be over.’

  ‘And if he does not?’ said Trasilika.

  ‘Then we must take it from him,’ said Justina.

  ‘But how?’ said Trasilika. ‘My ship is gone, my guards have been bribed away, and you… well, you have no fighting force, have you?’

  ‘We can try to scratch together a force of some description,’ said Justina. ‘Remember, we are not trying to conquer Untunchilamon. All we have to do is get the organic rectifier from Injiltaprajura to the island of Jod.’ ‘Might it not be simpler,’ said Froissart, ‘to get the Crab to exert its powers to bring the rectifier to the shores of Jod?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Trasilika. ‘If the organic rectifier is what you say it is and does what you say it does, why shouldn’t the Crab lend us its aid?’

  ‘Jod is under quarantine,’ said Log Jaris. ‘The quarantine is not perfect. Any soul brave enough to swim the Laitemata by night could gain an audience with the Crab. But… many people have lied to the Crab in the past for their own advantage. It is not likely to believe us or help us unless we present it with the organic rectifier itself.’ ‘Well,’ said Trasilika, ‘you want me to ask Ek for the return of the organic rectifier, even though you admit there’s little chance that he’ll agree. Isn’t it equally reasonable to send someone to petition the Crab? Even if the chances of the Crab agreeing are minimal?’

  Justina looked at Log Jaris.

  Log Jaris looked at Justina.

  Then the bullman sighed, and said:

  ‘I will swim the Laitemata tonight. Sharks and seasnakes permitting, I’ll have an answer from the Crab by the morrow.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Trasilika. ‘We’ll meet again first thing tomorrow to see what the Crab says. But suppose we get refused by both Ek and the Crab? Suppose we have to fight it out? What then? Who will fight with us?’ ‘Varazchavardan,’ said Justina. ‘Aquitaine Varazchavardan. He’s a powerful sorcerer. He fears that Aldarch the Third will execute him because he was long in my service. Then there’s Nixorjapretzel Rat, who was once Varazchavardan’s apprentice. Perhaps Varazchavardan can persuade Jan Rat to our cause.’

  ‘Two sorcerers will hardly win us a victory against the combined powers of the Cabal House,’ said Trasilika.

  ‘If the wonder-workers run true to form,’ rumbled Log Jaris, ‘the first hint of trouble will see them board themselves up in that Cabal House until all the danger’s over. Besides, there are others who will fight for the Empress. Myself included.’

  ‘Even so,’ said Trasilika, ‘I don’t see how a couple of sorcerers and a handful of loyalists can storm the Temple of Torture. We need me n in force. There are none such.’ ‘There is always Jal Japone,’ said J ustina.

  ‘Japone?’ said Froissart in astonishment. ‘You mean — the warlord?’

  ‘Who else?’ said Justina. ‘There are some loyal Ebrell Islanders w ho would doubtless serve me as ambassadors if I asked them to. Dunash Labrat is one such man.’ ‘Labrat?’ said Trasilika. ‘I’ve never heard o f him.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have,’ said Justina, ‘for he is but a bee keeper and a maker of mead. However, he knows Jal Japone well, for he sheltered with the warlord when Wazir Sin was waging a pogrom against the Ebrell Islanders in Injiltaprajura.’

  ‘Why should Japone help us?’ said Trasilika suspiciously.

  ‘We will offer him much in the name of the Crab,’ said Justina. ‘We will offer him a monopoly on all liquor sales in Injiltaprajura from here to eternity. That bribe should be sufficient to guarantee his compliance.’

  ‘All right,’ said Trasilika decisively. ‘We’ll do it. First I’ll ask Ek for the organic rectifier. If he won’t hand it over, we’ll storm the Temple of Torture and take it. Once you’ve won us men from Jal Japone.’

  ‘But where does that leave me?’ said Froissart. ‘I can’t stand as sacrifice!’

  ‘Relax,’ said Justina. ‘This whole business will be over before the Festival of Light begins. It’ll do you no harm to be named as a sacrifice.’

  ‘She’s right,’ said Trasilika.

  And all Jean Froissart’s protests were over-ruled.

  A long discussion of details then followed. Then Justina Thrug took herself off in search of the Ebrell Islander Dunash Labrat, meaning to command him north to the lair of the warlord Jal Japone.

  Justina was successful in her mission, and by noon Labrat was already on his way north.

  Justina then made her way to the pink palace, where she received distressing intelligence. Master Ek had refused to release the organic rectifier, and had strengthened his claim to pos
session of this ‘skavamareen’ by announcing that it would be one of the sacrifices at the Festival of Light.

  That meant that the fate of Injiltaprajura depended on the outcome of Log Jaris’s mission to the Crab that night — or, failing that, on the whims of the warlord Jal Japone. For Justina very much doubted that she could command sufficient force to storm the pink palace without help from the Crab or Japone, even supposing that Aquitaine Varazchavardan and Nixorjapretzel Rat were willing to help her.

  Justina felt more than a little bitter.

  All she needed was fifty men.

  That was all.

  Fifty staunch fighters and she could conquer Injiltaprajura.

  With fifty Yudonic Knights she could have done it easily. Could have smashed down the doors of the Temple of Torture. Extricated the organic rectifier. Got it to Jod. Converted the Crab. And then, in alliance with that Power, could have swept her enemies into the sea.

  But she had not fifty men.

  Through all these years she had ruled Injiltaprajura with guile and cunning, with justice and discretion. But all that was to come to naught — for want of fifty men. Unless the Crab or Japone extended their charity to her. But, frankly… Justina was far from certain of getting help from either of those two Powers.

  The Empress ascended to the palace roof, meaning to soothe her nerves by swimming in her rooftop pool. But Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin was there, labouring on the rebuilding of his airship, with Jan Rat working alongside him. Justina, loathe to disturb him in this enterprise — that ship might yet save her life, and Sken-Pitilkin seemed seldom in the mood to work on it — quietly withdrew.

  Downstairs again, Justina withdrew to her study. When entering that room, she usually gave time to her aquarium. She liked to watch fish: delighted in the grace of the weightless creatures as they drifted through their world of water, peacock their rainbow, dragon their wish. But these days her first concern was always the saucer which sat in spendid isolation above that world, alone on an island inviolate, safe from the depredations of ants and other marauders.

  Safe?

  ‘No!’ said Justina, with bitter disappointment.

  There were ants on the egg. Six of them at least. Black flecks of malice, animated appetite devoid of scruples or ethics. They were eating it, surely.

  Justina was devastated by this disaster. There was not one single corner of her world which was not threatened by death, horror, pain and pitiless cruelty. This at least she had hoped to salvage, this perfect egg and the miracle within. But she had failed. Even in this she had failed.

  Her vision blurred. She squeezed her eyes tight shut. Then fat and hopeless tears began to blubber down her face. Everything in the world was vile, ugly and pitiless, and she did not think she could bear it any longer.

  Then Justina calmed herself and, analytically — she had thought the defences she had devised for the egg to be perfect, but obviously she had erred — she began to investigate the scene of the disaster to see what defect in the fortifications the ants had discovered. But her most determined scrutiny failed to find the slightest flaw in the finemesh gauze which guarded the fishtank against invasion.

  ‘Yet the ants are there,’ said Justina in puzzlement. ‘They are there, are they not?’

  She looked closer. No, the flecks were not ants at all. They were merely black flecks.

  ‘It’s rotten, then,’ said Justina in disgust. ‘It’s gone rotten.’

  She displaced the soljamimpambagoya rocks, removed the gauze and retrieved the saucer. Then, overcome by a clinical curiosity, she decided to dissect the egg to see what kind of embryo had died within. She set the saucer down on her desk then rummaged in her cosmetics case, at length retrieving tweezers, a blackhead hook, a pustule needie and a pair of trimming scissors. These she laid out on the desk. Then she pulled up a chair so she could work at leisure in comfort.

  The Empress Justina picked up the pustule needle, meaning to lance one of the flecks to release any liquid rot within. Then she stayed her hand. For the egg had changed. The half-dozen flecks had run together to form one ragged patch of darkness. A strangely sudden change! Unless…

  Justina peered closely.

  ‘Well goodness gracious me!’ she said.

  The darkness was not a blemish but a hole. A hole into the egg. And within, something was moving. Even as the Empress watched, something yellow and wan snouted out from the egg. A tiny something, so small it was hard to credit its flesh with autonomous existence.

  ‘My!’ said Justina in wonderment.

  It was a dragon. The smallest of all the world’s dragons, and the first of its race to come into the world ab ovo. Its mother had been created ex nihilo by a demon acting on whim, and its mother was missing and possibly dead. Since the breed had demonstrated a capacity for parthenogenetic reproduction, the race might survive if this dragonet could be preserved.

  ‘But,’ said Justina, ‘as yet the thing is not even out of the egg.’

  No. It was not out at all. And its struggles to escape from the egg looked to be as traumatic as the prolonged birth-struggle which so oft initiates a human into the world of women and men. Justina longed to help it, but restrained herself. For the brute instruments of steel laid out upon the desk were of formidable size when compared to a dragon so fragile, and she doubted her hand could sustain the delicacies of surgery which would have been required to assist the thing from its miniature shell.

  So Justina watched until at last her dragon was free.

  Now it has been said by some commentators that Justina Thrug never denied herself the smallest indulgence: that whatever she wanted to do, she did. But this is not true. She denied herself much and restrained herself often, as did she now. For what Justina truly wanted to do was to have the palace bells rung long and loud to celebrate the dragonbirth, to command parades and festivals and a General Prescription. She wished to rush forth and to cry (as Occasions demanded):

  ‘Tintinnabulate the tintinnabula!’

  To hear bells, yes, and trumpets; to see smiles, yes, and laughter; to have uproar and gaiety, and a death to decorum. But Justina feared her people would think her mad were she to order such ceremonies for the hatching of this babiest of dragons. Furthermore, there was no alternative Occasion which she could reasonably propose as an excuse for an Outbreak. Therefore Justina denied herself pleasure and concentrated on the practicalities.

  ‘Food,’ said Justina.

  Again she had recourse to her cosmetics case. She took some little balls of cotton wool. One she soaked in water and another in goat’s milk, which was fresh-fetched from the kitchen at her command. These cotton wool balls she placed upon the saucer so this tiniest of dragonets could suckle upon them at will. Then she took a corpse maggot (a delicacy also commanded from the kitchen) and chopped it up very finely, and upon the saucer she raised a little pyramid comprising the resulting shreds of this most delicate of meats.

  One task alone remained before she returned her charge to its fishbowl sanctuary.

  The dragon must be named.

  ‘I name thee… what? No, not what. You need more of a name than what. Untunchilamon bore thee, hence… Injiltaprajura I name thee.’

  Injiltaprajura squirmed upon the blotting paper, which by now had soaked up most of the egg-slish of her hatching. Yet some organic aftermath of birth still clung to the dragon’s transparent scales. As Justina watched, Injiltaprajura opened her jaws, and began to lick herself clean with a tongue more slender than a cat’s whisker.

  And Justina smiled, in triumph and in hope for the future.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  It was night on Untunchilamon. The day quarter was undokondra; and, in the dark of that quarter, safe in the fastness of the Temple of Torture, an old man meditated upon the forthcoming delights of the Festival of Light. The old man was Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek, High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral, and in his imagination he was rehearsing whole catalogues of torture.

  Elsewhere, on
the rooftop of the pink palace which lorded it over Pokra Ridge, Olivia Qasaba sat as silently as a shadow as she watched the Empress Justina stripped to her nakedness.

  ‘Well,’ said Justina, smiling at the airship shadows which hid Olivia, ‘aren’t you going to join me?’

  ‘Maybe later,’ said Olivia.

  She was in no mood for disporting herself. She had yet to learn Justina’s knack of leaving her troubles to look after themselves. Besides, Olivia liked neither night nor water. The sun was her element, and she had always been a little afraid of the night.

  ‘This will do you good,’ said Justina.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Olivia formally, ‘but no.’

  ‘Then do you want to go back downstairs and go to bed?’

  ‘Not just yet,’ said Olivia.

  She was frightened by the menacing silence of the palace by night. Everyone who could leave the pink palace had done so in anticipation of some forthcoming disaster. Olivia did not like to be alone in the place.

  ‘As you wish,’ said Justina.

  Then turned to the water.

  The moon had swollen to the full. Justina saluted that luminary with unaccustomed formality before she plunged into her pool to porpoise and grampus at her leisure.

  There were no soldiers to observe the imperial disports, so Olivia appointed herself sentry, and kept a sharp lookout for assassins. Justina, as if untroubled by any thoughts of sudden death, long amused herself with her swimming. The water was warm, warm, amniotic. And when at last the Empress hauled herself from the water, the air enveloped her with a similar heat.

  Adrift in the air was a mosquito, which, lacking any intimation of its own mortality, settled upon the imperial forearm and proceeded to feed. Moments after it alights, a mosquito cannot be felt, for it injects a numbing fluid into the flesh when first it pierces the human integument. But Justina, alert to such assaults, felt that first feathering of mosquito feet. She knew it was there. The imperial benevolence proved less than infinite: and, moments later, the mosquito was a smear of greasy grey against Justina’s skin.