by Hugh Cook
‘Yes,’ said Shabble in great excitement. ‘He’s holy, that’s what he is, holy as ever was. And I’m His Priest, His High Priest, that’s what, so no more accounting, not ever, no more algorithms, no nothing. Just playing with cats and chasing seagulls, that’s all, for ever and ever. Lawyers, that’s what I’ve got, lawyers, court orders, freedom of religon, isn’t it exciting?’
‘Shabble!’ said Pokrov sharply. ‘This has gone quite far enough. If you don’t come to order promptly, I’ll—’ ‘Die,’ said Uckermark.
Pokrov shut his mouth abruptly. He could be killed before he could command Shabble to kill the potential Pokrov-killers.
‘Yes,’ said Uckermark. ‘That’s more sensible. Silence is a much more sensible course of action under the circumstances. Now why don’t you leave?’
‘We cannot leave,’ said Pelagius Zozimus, ‘because Injiltaprajura stands in grave danger.’
Then Zozimus quickly explained that Aldarch Three had triumphed in Talonsklavara; that a new wazir had come to Untunchilamon; that Justina Thrug had been arrested and was believed to be imprisoned in the Temple of Torture, and, in all probability, to be in immediate danger of losing her life; and that the new wazir would probably shortly kill a great many other people unless he was overthrown immediately.
‘You mean to bring civil war to the streets of Injiltaprajura,’ said Uckermark.
‘With Shabble’s help we can win such a war,’ said Pokrov.
‘Maybe,’ said Uckermark.
And maybe not. For, as Uckermark knew well from long acquaintance with Shabble, the shining one was prone to musical fits in which Injiltaprajura’s bright spark was totally deaf to all pleas and orders, however couched. Anyone who had Shabble as an ally could prosecute a war with fearful effect; but might lose regardless if an untimely fit befell poor Shabble.
‘We have no option,’ said Zozimus, ‘for if we go not to war then we will likely die.’
‘Then die in your own time,’ said Uckermark.
‘You will die with us,’ said Zozimus.
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said the much-scarred corpse-master. ‘We belong, you see, to a Protected Religion. The Cult of the Holy Cockroach and all its adherents are under the protection of the High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral.’
‘But,’ said Pokrov in amazement, ‘that’s impossible!
That’s an honour almost unheard of. Master Ek would never give his protection to a - cockroach, of all things!’
‘Master Ek!’ said Uckermark smoothly, ‘is not unaware of Shabble’s desire for independence. Nor is Master Ek unsympathetic to that desire. In long discussions with Master Ek, I myself made the advantages of the afore-mentioned Protected Religion perfectly clear.’
Zozimus and Pokrov looked at each other.
Obviously, they had been out-manoeuvred.
Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek, a long-time resident upon Untunchilamon, was fully aware of Shabble’s potential for mayhem; moreover, Ek may well have heard rumours to the effect that some people were able to command Shabble for their own purposes. So Ek had neutralized Shabble by, in effect, allowing Shabble to raise a private army to protect Shabble’s desire for independence.
‘This . . . this Cult of the Cockroach,’ said Pokrov.
‘The Holy Cockroach,’ said Firfat Labrat by way of correction.
‘Holy Cockroach, then,’ said Pokrov. ‘You say its adherents are under Master Ek’s protection. How . . . how precisely does one join this religion?’
Pokrov was already thinking, and thinking fast. Since Ek had neutralized Shabble, there was no way that enemies of Aldarch Three could triumph in civil war in Injiltaprajura. So Pokrov might well be advised to join this new Protected Religion to secure his own safety. After all, if it admitted villainous drug dealers like Firfat Labrat, why should it refuse entry to a reputable Analytical Engineer?
‘I regret to say,’ said Uckermark, with remarkably little regret in his voice, ‘that the entrance rolls are closed. This is a Closed Congregation. That was part of our agreement with Master Ek. The High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral is scarcely a fool, is he?’
‘No,’ said Pokrov bleakly.
‘And neither are we,’ said Zozimus brusquely, ‘so we’ll waste no more time here trifling with cockroaches holy or otherwise. Come! Let’s be going.’
And the wizard hustled the Analytical Engineer out into the street, where they faced each other in the hot and sweating sunlight.
‘Where will we run to?’ said Ivan Pokrov, in something like despair.
‘Run?’ said Pelagius Zozimus. ‘We’re running nowhere. We’re going to the Temple of Torture. To attack!’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
As the Empress Justina was hustled towards the Temple of Torture she collapsed, she went down, and the boots went in. Then Dardanalti was shouting, his lawyerly threats restoring order. Justina was hauled to her feet and marched into the Temple, into a blood-cooking heat where the air stank of curry-flavoured diarrhoea, where screams of agony bucked and contorted, where writhing smoke singed nostrils and rasped within throats.
Then the Empress was hauled into the naos of the Temple, and there was Dui Tin Char, and there were two children of Wen Endex - but both men were strangers, and their faces denied her all hope of help. An executioner bulked forward and wrenched back her head.
‘Stop!’ said Dardanalti. ‘I demand—’
Someone hit him, and he demanded no more.
Justina tried to plead, to protest. But vomited instead.
The executioner raised his blade.
Justina fainted.
‘Hold!’ cried Dui Tin Char.
Obediently the executioner stayed his hand.
‘Come on, man,’ said Manthandros Trasilika testily. ‘Get on with it.’
Dardanalti picked himself up from the ground, wiped a thread of blood from his mouth, and decided that for the moment his client would best be served by his silence.
‘The Thrug has fainted,’ said Tin Char.
‘What of it?’ said Trasilika, he of the heavyweight build and the cauliflower ear.
‘Your colleague will explain,’ said Tin Char, glancing at Jean Froissart.
The priest of Zoz the Ancestral stammered, looked around as if seeking an escape hatch, saw there was no getting out of the place, then said defiantly:
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘It is Written,’ said Tin Char, ‘that Delight depends on Desire, and the heights of Desire upon a studied Postponement. Is that not so?’
‘Verily,’ said Froissart weakly.
The sweat was bulging from his forehead and furrowing down his face. His eyes blinked furiously.
‘Are you ill?’ said Tin Char.
‘It’s the heat,’ said Froissart.
‘He’s had malaria,’ added Trasilika.
Whether heat or malaria was to blame, the great and ever-increasing distress of Jean Froissart was a sight to see. Tin Char found it a most delicious sight. Tin Char was a Janjuladoola racist who hated the children of Wen Endex; therefore he found Froissart’s suffering worth savouring. How could that suffering be prolonged?
The answer came to Tin Char almost immediately. ‘Friend Froissart,’ said Tin Char, ‘I’m most concerned to see you suffering so badly. We will therefore dedicate this sacrifice to the cause of your improved health. You are conscious of the honour, I hope?’
‘Yes,’ said Froissart weakly.
‘Then,’ said Tin Char, ‘we will proceed, but in the leisurely way that this most honourable ceremony demands. We will start with the Torture of the Thousand Scorpions. Ah, Justina! Are you awakening? You are? Good. You will be happy to hear that your execution has been postponed. Instead, we are going to commence with some preliminary delights.’
Tin Char explained, and his explanation left Justina Thrug so sick with fear and horror that her vocal chords were temporarily paralysed. As she was strapped down in a torture chamber, Dardanalti intervened on her beha
lf, saying:
‘By what authority do you bring Justina here?’
‘By the authority of this warrant,’ said Tin Char, flourishing Justina’s death warrant before her lawyer. Dardanalti snatched it, read it, then said:
‘This warrant is good, valid and legal. On behalf of my client, I demand that this warrant be executed immediately. I demand that my client be killed on the spot.’
‘You are in no position to demand anything,’ said Dui Tin Char, starting to get angry.
How dare this prating attorney interfere?
‘I demand,’ said Dardanalti, ‘what Aldarch the Third demands. This warrant is from Aldarch Three. He demands and commands the immediate execution of Justina Thrug. Immediate. As in now. Executioner, proceed!’
‘Yes,’ said Froissart, who wanted to get out of that sweltering place of blood and shadows, to escape before he fainted. ‘Yes, kill her.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Justina faintly, as she found her voice at last. ‘Kill me.’
The Empress Justina knew death to be far preferable to the horrors offered as an alternative, particularly when those horrors would in any case ultimately lead to her demise.
‘What say you?’ said Tin Char, looking at Manthandros Trasilika. ‘As wazir, you have wide discretionary powers. Even in the face of a direct order such as this warrant. Well. Are you wazir, or are you not?’
‘I am,’ said Trasilika, with more emphasis than was strictly necessary.
The vehemence of Trasilika’s insistence startled Tin Char. It consolidated a dozen half-felt suspicions into a series of most definite questions. Was there more to Froissart’s mounting panic than a surfeit of heat? Were these two children of Wen Endex the wazir and priest they claimed to be?
What an interesting line of thought!
Dardanalti, whose mind was as sharp as a meat skewer, observed Tin Char’s speculative scrutiny of Jean Froissart and guessed its cause. Here was hope!
‘May I humbly suggest,’ said Dui Tin Char, ‘that you establish your authority by granting me permission to vary the terms of this warrant. ’
Dardanalti was disappointed. He had expected Tin Char to denounce Jean Froissart as a false priest. But Tin Char had not. Why not? Maybe his suspicions were too slight. Maybe, thought Dardanalti, Tin Char actually did not have such suspicions. Or maybe he suspected but reserved those suspicions for later exploitation.
‘We all know from historical example,’ continued Tin Char, ‘that Aldarch the Third is very lenient in his attitude to death warrants. It would seem to me that he cares not how they are executed, as long as the subject of the warrant ends up dead.’
Tin Char then cited several historical cases to back up his judgement. Then he made a little speech.
‘Manthandros Trasilika. Untunchilamon has long suffered the lack of legal leadership. We are ready for a true wazir. We hope you show yourself to be such a man. But . . . may I venture a small observation? Untunchilamon is far removed from the heartland of the Izdimir Empire. Our wazirs have traditionally been chosen for their initiative, independence and self-sufficiency. All qualities unacceptable in Obooloo, as we know. But our isolation demands that we have a true leader in our midst, lest our island be paralysed by a bureaucracy with its brain seated half an ocean away. Manthandros Trasilika. I beg you. Grant me this boon. Show yourself to be a wazir true. Show your initiative. Your independence. Your confidence. Show us we have the leader we desire. Grant us a variance to the terms of this warrant. Allow me to torture the Thrug before she is killed.’
There was a pause.
Jean Froissart swayed on his feet, as if he would faint.
But Manthandros Trasilika was made of sterner stuff. He looked Tin Char in the face and he said:
‘Dui Tin Char, I speak to you as the rightful wazir of Injiltaprajura. The witch must die. That is the law. But, as wazir, I grant a variance to the terms of her death warrant. You may torture the Thrug before you kill her.’
‘Excellent!’ said Tin Char. ‘May the pleasures both major and minor delight your years till the very end, and may your hereafter join your ancestors amidst the fragrance of the nine million lotus flowers of the seventy-fifth heaven. May you—’
But there is no need to give the rest of Tin Char’s speech of gratitude, for it is one of those formalized speeches which most cultivated people know by heart; the uncultivated but curious student will find the complete text (plus an account of the appropriate accompanying hand gestures) in Lady Jade’s Book of Common Etiquette.
With the speech complete, Dui Tin Char ordered that ten hundred scorpions be produced so the Torture of the Thousand Scorpions could commence. Unfortunately, there were not a thousand scorpions to be found. Indeed, there was not even one. A furious Tin Char swiftly extorted the truth from two shamefaced acolytes: they had sold the delectable arachnids to Jarry the chef, Ganthorgruk’s master of cookery.
The acolytes had thought it safe to make this deal because, under the rule of the Empress Justina, the Temple of Torture was not supposed to exist at all; hence no legal remedies could have been pursued against them had they been caught out. To their great discomfort, the sudden advent of a new wazir had altered their situation diametrically.
‘I’ll deal with you later,’ said the wrathful Tin Char to his trembling acolytes. ‘If you wish to redeem yourself, find me some scorpions. Or some centipedes at least.’
So the acolytes fled from the Temple of Torture. Proceeding with a haste most unsuited to the climate, they rushed to the waterfront, where a path of crushed coral and broken bloodstone stretched all the way from Marthandorthan to the harbour bridge. Along this path lay the markets of Untunchilamon where one could buy all products and services imaginable, from a bunch of bananas to the tender attentions of Doctor Death the dentist.
Everything was on sale.
Except scorpions.
And centipedes.
Scorpions had always been hard to come by in Untunchilamon, since Jarry the chef had always made great demands upon the available supply. Whether Ganthorgruk’s clientele actually liked eating scorpions is a moot point; nevertheless, the fact is that bits and pieces of these predators went into every hash, curry and pie that was served to the denizens of that enormous doss house. As for centipedes, Injiltaprajura had suffered a great shortage of these myriads ever since the Crab had been introduced to this addictive delicacy; for the quantities of centipede soup which can be consumed on a daily basis by a gourmandizing Crab are nothing short of prodigious.
While the acolytes were desperately questing for scorpion and centipede, there was a disturbance at the Temple of Torture. The perturbation of the smooth flow of events was caused by the intrusion of a soldier, Shanvil Angarus May. This warrior was an Ashdan from Ashmolea North, which explains the impetuous manner in which he tried to storm the Temple single-handed to rescue his Empress.
Shanvil Angarus May was overpowered and disarmed. Then he was taken to the naos of the Temple so he could watch the destruction of his Empress before suffering a similar fate himself.
Shortly, the wizard Pelagius Zozimus arrived at the Temple in the company of Ivan Pokrov. The wizard and the analytical engineer hoped to free Justina by bribe or bluff, or, if all else failed, by carefully timed violence. A desperate dare: and a dare which failed. For they were overpowered, bound, gagged and then dragged to the naos of the Temple, where they were tied to iron rings set in the walls. They too were doomed to wait, witness then die.
There was then a somewhat more prolonged disturbance - a regular stramash, in fact - when a furious Juliet Idaho burst in upon the Temple with mayhem on his mind. He too was disarmed, though not without difficulty. Then he was taken to join the other captives. His feet were tied to iron rings set in the floor; his hands were bound behind his back; and a noose was strung around his neck and tightened till Idaho had to stand on tiptoe lest he strangle.
It will be seen, then, that four formidable residents of Injiltaprajura were loyal enough or desp
erate enough to dare all in an effort to free their Empress. Had they been able to combine, conspire and agree on a concerted effort, they might have succeeded. Possibly. But the speed of events, the difficulties of communication and the failure of intelligence-gathering activities had prevented such combination.
Strangely, the accumulation of so many prisoners did not hearten Tin Char. Rather, he began to worry. He began to suspect he had been rash in proposing to indulge himself in acts of extended torture. The politics of Injiltaprajura would remain unstable until Justina Thrug was quite dead.
It was the acolytes who were to blame.
If they had not dabbled in thievery, then the torture would already be well on its way to a terminal conclusion.
As Tin Char was so thinking, the acolytes at last returned with two centipedes in a wickerwork cage. Only two? A pair would suffice, for these were malevolent monsters of purple hue, each as long as a man’s forearm.
‘At last,’ said Tin Char. ‘Fetch me the centipede tongs, or have you perchance pawned them?’
‘Master,’ said the younger of the acolytes, ‘the centipede tongs will be with you instantly.’
A protracted delay followed, a delay in which Tin Char became so agitated he felt quite sick; but at last the tongs were produced. Tin Char took the tongs.
‘Out of my way!’ he said, giving one of the acolytes a push.
Both acolytes squeezed in beside Juliet Idaho. The Yudonic Knight looked sideways at them and whispered:
‘Cut me free.’
Unfortunately, the naos was far too small for private conspiracy. Tin Char heard the whisper and gave Idaho a dirty look; whereafter the helpless Yudonic Knight said no more.
Tin Char already had to hand the pry-levers which he planned to use to open a certain portion of the imperial anatomy so the scorpions could be inserted into a particularly sensitive part of the body.
But first, the preliminary sacrifice must necessarily be made. The rites of the Temple of Torture require the sacrificing priest to drink the blood of whatever animal is slaughtered in such a ceremony. Tin Char, however, was in no mood for drinking fresh hot blood, never a pleasant beverage on a humid day in Injiltaprajura. He wondered if he could inflict this duty on the quick-blinking Jean Froissart.
