The Wazir and the Witch

by Hugh Cook

  So Pelagius Zozimus and Ivan Pokrov set forth to seek out Shabble, first making their way to the Dromdanjerie, the lunatic asylum where the globular master of mischief so often went for interesting conversation with a wide range of people who had plenty of time on their hands.

  Pelagius Zozimus and Ivan Pokrov did not run. Nevertheless, their pace evidenced a certain haste as they went across the harbour bridge, through the slumlands of Lubos, then up steep-rising Skindik Way. Past the slaughterhouse they went, a trickle of monkey blood running into the street as they stalked past. Next came the huge rotting doss-house known as Ganth-orgruk, and then the Dromdanjerie.

  Into that bedlam they went. It was cool within, and quiet, but for the ominous beating of a drum.

  Tok-tok-tuk!

  Tok-tok-tuk . . .!

  The pulse of a remorseless madness!

  Zozimus and Pokrov paid no heed to the drumming, but enquired after the master of the place (the eminent Ashdan known as Jon Qasaba). At their request, a servant sought him out. They then interrogated him as to Shabble’s whereabouts.

  ‘You’ll find friend Shabble in Marthandorthan,’ said Jon Qasaba.

  Pelagius Zozimus raised one eyebrow. This raising of one eyebrow was a speciality of his. Though Zozimus was an uitlander who had spent very little of his life on Untunchilamon, he nevertheless knew Marthandorthan to be a singularly insalubrious area, a slumland of warehouses, speakeasies, gangster lairs and over-populated tenement blocks notorious for the delinquency of the children spawned with them.

  Pokrov knew this also.

  ‘Marthandorthan?’ said the analytical engineer, frowning. ‘What would Shabble be doing there?’

  ‘Do you by chance know of a drug dealer by name of Firfat Labrat?’ said Qasaba.

  ‘Well . . . yes,’ conceded Pokrov with some reluctance. ‘Labrat is a cousin of an employee of mine.’

  ‘So he is,’ said Qasaba. ‘So he is. And unless I am misinformed, you once had occasion to shelter in the Xtokobrokotok.’

  ‘The Xtokobrokotok?’ said Pokrov.

  ‘That,’ said Jon Qasaba, ‘is the name of Firtat Labrat’s warehouse in Marthandorthan.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Pokrov. ‘So. What are you trying to tell me? That I’ll find Shabble there?’

  ‘Shabble, yes,’ said Qasaba. ‘And Labrat. Did you by chance introduce the pair?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Pokrov. ‘When I was in this - what is the name of the place?’

  ‘Xtokobrokotok.’

  ‘Yes, well, when I was there, Forfat Labrat asked for some help with his income tax. As a matter of courtesy I was compelled to oblige, and naturally I asked Shabble to give me some help. It’s an excellent accountant, this Shabble, whatever its other failings may be.’

  ‘Then you must bear some of the responsibility for what has happened,’ said Qasaba ominously.

  ‘Responsibility?’ said Pokrov in bewilderment. ‘What are you talking about? What’s Shabble done now?’

  ‘If I was to tell you,’ said Qasaba, ‘you’d be most unlikely to believe me. It’s best that you go and see for yourself.’

  ‘This is no time for games,’ said Zozimus.

  And elaborated, swiftly outlining the need for urgency. Qasaba remained unmoved.

  ‘Go,’ said Qasaba, ‘and see for yourself.’

  ‘Well,’ said Pokrov, ‘well, if you say so. We will. We will. Don’t worry, friend Zozimus. Shabble will soon be a convert to our cause. I guarantee it.’

  ‘You speak of converts?’ said Qasaba, with a wry smile. ‘You mean to convert Shabble? I believe it is Shabble who is doing the converting these days.’

  ‘What precisely is that supposed to mean?’ said Pokrov.

  ‘Go to Marthandorthan,’ said Qasaba. ‘Dare your way to Xtokobrokotok. Then you’ll find out.’

  Since the eminent Ashdan therapist declined to say more, regardless of the urgencies of the moment, his two visitors had no option but to remove themselves from the Dromanjerie and set forth for the lair of the drug dealer Firfat Labrat, there to find out for themselves precisely what mischief was presently amusing the feckless and ever-reckless Shabble.

  They feared, of course, that by this time Justina might well be dead.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  There were at this time some 30,000 souls in the fair city of Injiltaprajura, which means that a comprehensive history of even a single day in the life of the metropolis would be encyclopedic in bulk and mind-boggling in complexity. Fortunately, this is not such a comprehensive history; it is selective in the extreme, which is why only a very few of the inhabitants of Untunchilamon’s capital have been mentioned by name.

  Reference has been made to Lonstantine, Justina and Theodora Thrug; to Juliet Idaho and Shanvil May; to the wizards Pelagius Zozimus and Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin; to the formidable Aquitaine Varazchavardan and his erstwhile apprentice Nixorjapretzel Rat; to certain survivors of the Golden Gulag, these being the bright-bouncing Shabble, an engineer called Ivan Pokrov and a conjuror going by the name of Odolo; to Jon Qasaba and to his daughter Olivia, lover of the Ebrell Islander Chegory Guy, himself a friend of the Crab of the island of Jod; to Manthandros Trasilika, Jean Froissart and Nadalastab-stala Banraithanchumun Ek; to the lawyer Dardanalti and to others.

  Now, all of these people know (or will know) all of the others; and each must take the actual or potential actions of all into account when manoeuvring for survival or advantage. Unfortunately, this tends to make for complexity; and there is a danger that some few readers unversed in the ways of history will find the interplay of even this carefully thinned selection of protagonists a trifle bewildering.

  But what is the poor historian to do?

  Were this a fiction instead of a history, certain obvious solutions could be entertained, most of them involving a general massacre to simplify the outline of events. A glorious and spontaneous bursting of brains, for example; or a sudden plague of meningococcal meningitis; or a rain of rocks from the sky to shatter an appropriate number of heads; or a swarm of killer scorpions invading from Zolabrik to sting, chew, bite and scrabble their way through a living nightmare until Injiltaprajura was suitably depopulated; or evil elves with phosphorescent eyes arriving by the shipload to hack the city’s population down to a thousandth of its original magnitude.

  But facts are as they are; and the fact is that no unnatural disaster beset the island of Untunchilamon in the final days of the reign of Justina Thrug. Furthermore, anyone who grew to maturity in the time of Talonsklavara was by definition a survivor; therefore the advent of a new wazir and the political instability thereby produced did not automatically result in large numbers of people conveniently curling up their toes and disappearing from the historical panorama.

  Be assured, however, that all key players in the politics of Untunchilamon have now been identified, and will be identified yet again should the need arise. Nevertheless, there remains a need to make mention of one more person. This is Bro Drumel, captain of Justina’s palace guard.

  On the fateful day on which the good ship Oktobdoj arrived in the Laitemata, Bro Drumel began his morning by attacking some of the paperwork which had piled up in his office in the Moremo Maximum Security Prison. He was still hard at work in that office when he received news of the arrival of a brothel ship in Laitemata.

  ‘Such rumour is false,’ said Drumel to the messenger who so informed him. ‘If drums could talk, they’d rumour thus, but tongues have no less excuse for ignorance. No brothel ship would sail across Moana.’

  ‘But it is true, my lord,’ insisted the messenger, as politely as he knew how. ‘I have seen the bark myself.’

  ‘How absurd,’ said Drumel. ‘A brothel ship ! Here! They’ll lose money on that, and badly.’

  Then he thought no more about it, which was easy to do as Moremo was located on Injiltaprajura’s desert side, and hence insulated from any immediate knowledge of developments (excitements, alarums, arrests, confrontations and such
) taking place portside.

  Bro Drumel was currently running the prison ( as well as Justina’s palace guard) because the Governor of that institution had died after being attacked and bitten by a rabid pig. The Governor’s deputy was in the Dromdanjerie suffering from delirium tremens and the deputy’s deputy was illiterate; so the Empress Justina, after considering the lack of available talent, had lumbered Bro Drumel with this job in addition to his other duties.

  Drumel suspected he was being punished.

  Punished?

  Why, yes.

  For, earlier in the year, Bro Drumel had joined a coup against the Empress, a coup which had almost cost Justina her life. Much had thereafter been forgiven, but not all; hence Bro Drumel’s labours.

  His paperwork was finally interrupted by the advent of Juliet Idaho, who was searching for Shanvil Angarus May.

  ‘What do you want him for?’ said Bro Drumel.

  ‘To kick in his head,’ answered Idaho.

  Which was in keeping with Idaho’s character; though the truth was rather different, the truth being that the Empress Justina had commanded Idaho to produce Shanvil Angarus May so they could discuss a certain translation which May had made from the Slandolin.

  ‘Why,’ said Drumel, ‘seek him here?’

  ‘Because May is your deputy, is he not?’ said Idaho.

  ‘Technically, yes,’ said Drumel. ‘But he’s yet to show his face in the prison. I think he lacks a taste for paperwork.’

  So saying, Drumel pointed at his own paperwork in distaste. Petitions; ration requisitions; authorizations for routine maintenance work; calculations for release dates; certificates of birchings, beatings and brandings; and stacks of similar bureaucratic impedimenta.

  ‘But,’ said Idaho, in extreme irritation, ‘I was specifically told he would be here.’

  ‘You were lied to,’ said Drumel.

  ‘It was a soldier who told me,’ said Idaho.

  ‘Soldiers are not universally truthful,’ said Drumel dryly.

  ‘I’ll beat him till his bones are bare and bloody,’ said Idaho savagely. ‘He told me a deliberate lie. To my face!’

  ‘Who was it?’ said Drumel.

  Idaho named the miscreant, then said:

  ‘I’d been looking for May in the palace. Then I ... I met these—’

  He stopped.

  Something unusual had happened.

  Juliet Idaho had begun to think.

  Idaho thought hard. He had left Justina. He had gone in search of May. He had failed to find May. Then he had met a party of soldiers entering the palace. He had asked after May. He had been lied to: had been misdirected to the desert side prison.

  Which meant . . .

  ‘You!’ roared Idaho, drawing his sword.

  ‘Don’t chop me!’ screamed Bro Drumel, throwing up his hands in horror.

  ‘It’s a plot, isn’t it?’ shouted Idaho.

  ‘Plot?’ said Drumel in bewilderment. ‘Plot, what plot? What are you talking about?’

  ‘To kill Justina. It must be. That’s what they came for. Too scared to kill me on the spot so they sent me haring off to Moremo. And you’re mixed up in it!’

  Bro Drumel protested his innocence, but Idaho was not placated. Drumel had participated in one attempted coup already, so was unlikely to be innocent if a second was in progress.

  Shortly, Juliet Idaho was making for the pink palace with a much-sweating Bro Drumel stumbling in front of him. Idaho’s sword was drawn. Bro Drumel’s hands were tied behind his back, and Idaho had already promised the man that he would be killed immediately if any terminal misfortune had befallen Justina Thrug.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  On departing from the Dromdanjerie, Pelagius Zozimus and Ivan Pokrov followed Jon Qasaba’s advice and made their way to Marthandorthan, Injiltaprajura’s ill-reputed dockland area, where they hoped to find Shabble. The most direct route would have been via Goldhammer Rise, but they felt it wisest to avoid the vicinity of the Temple of Torture until they had recruited Shabble to their cause; hence they took a back-cut route which avoided possible embarrassments.

  Zozimus and Pokrov reached Marthandorthan. As they strode through this quarter of slumland tenements and brooding warehouses, the feverish pulse of the drums of Injiltaprajura assailed them from all sides.

  When they located the Xtokobrokotok, the insalubrious warehouse belonging to the drug dealer Firfat Labrat, they found a group of teenage drummers camped in the street outside it, beating repetitively upon their instruments of diabolical intoxication.

  Tok-tok-thuk!

  Tok-tok-thuk . . .!

  Ignoring the drummers, Zozimus and Pokrov advanced upon the Xtokobrokotok and begged leave to enter. But the doorman who guarded the portal of the place refused to admit them unless they stated their business; and this both wizard and analytical engineer declined to do. Instead, they overpowered the doorman and forced an entrance.

  They found themselves in a large, high-gabled hall studded with doors opening into offices and strongrooms. The light of a few feeble oil lanterns was supplemented by some high-placed slit windows which had lately been cut in the far wall of the warehouse. The air was heavy with the scent of joss, incense and burnt rice.

  To his surprise, Pokrov saw a gallows had been erected in the centre of the warehouse. From it there hung a cage. A birdcage? He could not tell, for the cage was distant and the gloom murky. Round the gallows there sat some four or five dozen people of various ages, sexes and classes. They sat cross-legged, and from them there arose a monotonous chanting. What were they saying? If Pokrov heard aright, the chant went thus:

  ‘Holy holy holy. Holy is thy presence. Holy is the day which thou dost grace. We will worship thee now, and tomorrow, and on tomorrow’s morrow, and on into eternity. Holy holy holy. Holy is thy presence . . .’

  Floating above the gallows was a bright-shining bubble about the size of a clenched fist. Or, to be slightly more specific, about the size of the Standard Fist affixed to the end of those lethal clubs wielded by the rubble boxers of the city of Obooloo.

  ‘They’re worshippng Shabble!’ said Pokrov in tones of mingled astonishment and outrage.

  ‘That will never do,’ said Zozimus. Then raised his voice to a shout: ‘Shabble! Come here!’

  ‘At once,’ said Pokrov. ‘Or I will send you to a therapist!’

  The chanting ended abruptly. The worshippers around the gallows turned in startlement to see who had intruded upon their sacred ceremony. And Shabble, with a wail of terror-stricken panic, bobbled through the air toward Pokrov and Zozimus.

  As Shabble approached, a side door was flung open, and forth from that side door there came Firfat Labrat himself and a much-scarred and much-tattooed man whom Pokrov recognized as the corpse-master Uckermark. Behind them were half a dozen men with crossbows.

  Shabble came to a halt just above their collective heads and brightened marginally, throwing all into sharp focus.

  ‘Hello,’ said Shabble, brightly.

  Shabble’s momentary fear and panic were over, and Shabble’s customary high spirits had once again regained the ascendancy.

  ‘Shabble!’ said Pokrov. ‘I’ve got a job for you. You must—•’

  ‘Silence!’ said Firfat Labrat. ‘One more word and you’re dead.’

  Half a dozen cocked and loaded crossbows were immediately levelled at Ivan Pokrov and Pelagius Zozimus. If this, confrontation disintegrated into violence, then Pokrov and Zozimus would surely be killed. Pokrov had no combat skills. Zozimus, on the other hand, was an accomplished warrior, and a wizard to boot. But Zozimus could scarcely hope to dodge half a dozen crossbow bolts fired at point blank range. And as for his wizardry, that was unfortunately somewhat specialized; Zozimus was a wizard of the order of Xluzu, and hence dealt largely with the animation of corpses, an ability scarcely apposite at the moment.

  As Zozimus and Pokrov maintained a studied silence, the corpse-master Uckermark cleared his throat.

  T
hen said:

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Shabble’s lawyer.’

  This was news to Ivan Pokrov. Uckermark was certainly no stranger to the law, for his work with human flesh had brought many charges of blasphemy upon his head; however, while Uckermark had always defended himself in court with panache and success, he had never before laid claim to any legal qualifications.

  Despite the threat of the crossbows, Pokrov could not help but expostulate:

  ‘You are no lawyer!’

  ‘Ah, but I am,’ said Uckermark, with a grin of great cunning. ‘I have a degree from Injiltaprajura’s leading university.’

  ‘Your fraudulent farce does not amuse us,’ said Pelagius Zozimus coldly. ‘Injiltaprajura has no university.’

  ‘You stand in error,’ said Uckermark. ‘In point of fact, it has three. The Temple of Torture was formally constituted as a university in the time of the late Wazir Sin. Furthermore, standing beside you is the head of a second university, our dearly beloved Ivan Pokrov. Under interrogation, I’m sure he would admit that his Analytical Institute had a similar legal status. The Cabal House of the wonder-workers is another such seat of learning, and it is from there that my degree derives.’ ‘You have not the look of a scholar,’ said Zozimus. ‘So, as for this degree, I suppose you bought it.’

  ‘I did,’ said Uckermark, unabashed by this accusation. ‘But my knowledge of the law is firm regardless. This restraint order is valid.’

  So saying, Uckermark produced an ornate parchment with a flourish, and presented it to Ivan Pokrov.

  ‘We knew you’d show up sooner or later,’ said Uckermark, ‘so we went to the trouble of getting this court order. It restrains you from interfering in any way whatsoever with the Cult of the Holy Cockroach, or with the High Priest of that Cult.’

  ‘The holy what?’ said Pokrov in amazement. ‘Cockroach,’ said Firfat Labrat.

  ‘You know,’ said Uckermark. ‘The shabiti. The veko-veko. The loqualadibimosqantarka.’