The Wazir and the Witch

by Hugh Cook

  Justina had feared for many, and many died.

  Such is the record of history.

  By dawn the next day, however, the troubles were largely at an end. For most of those who considered themselves potential victims had fled by sea; or had pursued the course of desperation earlier embarked upon by Dui Tin Char, and had taken themselves off into the wastes of Zolabrik; or had retreated Downstairs. As for the persecutors, they were by and large exhausted. As if beset by a similar exhaustion, the fires themselves died down, having consumed a good third of the city in their earlier passion. Then beclouded skies douched Injiltaprajura with a bucketing downpour, dousing the last fervour of fire and riot alike.

  It was then that Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek, High Priest of the Temple of Zoz, had himself carried in a litter to the Cabal House. A difficult trip it was, with his slaves slipping and sliding on the wet bloodstone paving blocks, and the rain making a nonsense of his litter’s canopy. But the elderly orangeeyed mutant got to the Cabal House in one piece, gained admission, then began to lecture the timorous wonderworkers within.

  ‘Your do-nothing idleness,’ said Ek, beginning with an unaccustomed temperance, ‘has seen the richest slice of our city burnt to the ground.’

  ‘The pink palace yet stands,’ said young Nixorjapretzel Rat, who had escaped from his captors during the night and had sought refuge with his fellow sorcerers.

  ‘So it does, so it does,’ said Ek, after indulging in a silence meant to chasten the feckless Rat. ‘Doubtless there remains an excellent view from the roof. A view of scorched earth and smouldering cinders.’

  Ek inflicted another silence upon the wonder-workers. ‘Some of the city yet remains untouched,’ said one of his auditors.

  ‘Oh yes!’ said Ek. ‘Marthandorthan! A gift from the gods indeed!’

  This sarcasm did not silence the sorcerers entirely, for one went so far as to say:

  ‘We . . . we ventured nothing for fear of the Crab.’

  ‘It . . . it did intervene,’ said another. ‘It burnt the harbour bridge.’

  ‘We thought it would be more, more vigorous,’ said Rat, seeking to win favour from his fellows by arguing on their behalf. ‘After all, it’s supposed to have made itself wazir, or so everyone’s been told.’

  Ek treated these excuses with the contempt they deserved. His arthritic fingers fumbled tobacco into cigarette form. One of the sorcerers hastened to bring him fire. Ek lit his cigarette and smoked a good half of it before he said:

  ‘The mob ventured all. The Crab did nothing, beyond lighting the minor bonfire to which you have alluded.’ More smoke.

  More silence.

  Then:

  ‘Some time ago,’ said Ek, ‘I discussed our predicament with certain wonder-workers. Some of these I see before me now. The Crab we fear. Yes. But maintaining power in the face of a wrathful Crab is possible. Quarantine is the answer. That was what I thought at the time. No person was brave enough to act on such suggestion.’

  ‘As I recall,’ ventured one wonder-worker, ‘no actual—’ ‘Recall not!’ said Ek, his voice a whip. ‘Rather, obey. It is not for me to command. I am High Priest, as you know. I am consecrated to another purpose. It is not proper for me to command, nor is it strictly lawful. But things have reached the stage where to do otherwise would be lunatic. Does anyone here dispute it?’

  None did.

  Thus did Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek make himself de facto wazir of Injiltaprajura, declaring that city and the island of Untunchilamon to be again a part of the Izdimir Empire, and to be under the rule of Aldarch Three.

  Ek demanded oaths of loyalty from the wonderworkers, and received such oaths. Those soldiers who could be located were similarly placed under oath; and a militia was raised to supplement the soldiery.

  Ek lectured these combined forces: sorcerers, soldiers and militiamen.

  ‘We have nothing to fear but fear itself,’ said Ek.

  ‘What about the Thrug?’ said a soldier.

  ‘Justina is missing,’ said Ek. ‘Missing, believed dead.’ ‘Her sister, then. Theodora.’

  ‘Missing, believed to be at sea.’

  ‘And Lonstantine Thrug?’

  ‘The Dromdanjerie has been burnt out,’ said Ek. ‘Lonstantine is missing, another Thrug believed dead. If he lives, I fear him not. I’ve nothing to fear from a patent lunatic.’

  ‘Then . . . what about . . . what about the Crab?’

  ‘The Crab keeps to Jod,’ said Ek. ‘By its own choice.

  Contrary to expectation, it failed to exercise its authority during the riot. Its sole act was to burn the harbour bridge. It chose isolation. We need but enforce that isolation to ensure our own security.’

  Steps to do just that were soon underway. Patrols were instituted. Guards were placed on all boats. Canoes went into the rainswept Laitemata with bowmen aboard. Parties were landed on Scimitar to deny approach to Jod from that direction. Now nobody could warn, petition, counsel or plead with the Crab; and thus its impotence was assured.

  Meantime, Justina and Olivia were still navigating through the depths Downstairs. An amazing feat of courageous endurance, this, since the rectifier was so great in mass and the women were but two in number. But Justina was daughter of a Yudonic Knight and Olivia Qasaba was of Ashdan stock; and both were conscious of their respective geneses and the burdens of pride which were a part of their cultural inheritance.

  Thanks to strength, passion, and the accidental discovery of a Lift (which saw them rise a full four hundred levels in fewer than five heartbeats) the two sweating females were at last able to manoeuvre the organic rectifier into the streets of Injiltaprajura, streets alive with pulse-beats of the drums of the drummers.

  By this time, the day of their flight had given way to night, and night in turn to day.

  And all this time, Ivan Pokrov and poor Chegory Guy had been left alone with the therapist, which had indulged itself in a most intimidating line in conversation. Their sole hope had been that the organic rectifier would function as advertised, that it would turn Crab to human, that a grateful Crab would agree to demolish the therapist, and that Justina would soon return with the Crab to save the therapist’s victims from being demolished themselves.

  But hopes of such swift rescue were doomed to be disappointed.

  When Justina Thrug and Olivia Qasaba at last emerged into the streets of Injiltaprajura, they were surprised to find it raining heavily, disturbed by the foul reek of burnt-out houses which yet hung so heavily in the air, and shocked by the sight of incinerated buildings.

  They came out into the daylight by means of a cavelike opening in a sheer bank at the northern boundary of the slumlands of Lubos. This was an area of tactical concern to Master Ek since it was a much-populated area close to the shores of the Laitemata. Therefore it was much patrolled by soldiers intent on maintaining the quarantine of the island of Jod; and it is scarcely surprising that the two females were shortly discovered.

  Given the fact that Justina and Olivia had exhausted themselves in bringing the organic rectifier to the surface, it is similarly unsurprising that they put up no effective resistance whatsoever.

  Which explains why, as a sly and self-delighting therapist lectured Ivan Pokrov and Chegory Guy on the pain potential of the anus, Justina Thrug was negotiating (or trying to negotiate) with the High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Young Olivia Qasaba was present at the interview between Justina Thrug and Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek; an interview, as it happens, which was singularly brief. The only notable point is a question asked by the redoubtable Ek.

  ‘What is this?’ said Master Ek, pointing at the organic rectifier.

  ‘A skavamareen,’ said Justina firmly.

  ‘And what, pray tell, is a skavamareen?’

  ‘A musical instrument. The Hermit Crab bade us fetch it.’

  ‘This?’ said Ek. ‘This? A musical instrument? Are we to presume th
at our beloved Empress has become a drummer?’

  ‘The thing is not a drum, whatever it is,’ said Justina, choosing to take Ek’s words at face value. ‘But the Crab declares it to be a musical instrument of some description. My wisdom is not equal to a dispute with a Crab.’

  ‘Or with a cockroach, one suspects,’ said Ek dryly.

  He stubbed out a cigarette on the ‘skavamareen’ then ordered that this mysterious device be taken to the Temple of Torture, a place which offered a far greater degree of physical security than the comparatively flimsy Temple of Zoz the Ancestral. Ek intended to inspect this ‘skavamareen’ at his leisure to see if he could figure out how to make it work. For he strongly suspected that this was the organic rectifier which had been mentioned by the Injiltaprajuradariski, several tantalizing fragments of which were now in his possession.

  ‘As for you,’ said Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek, addressing the Empress Justina, ‘I will sacrifice you to Zoz the Ancestral. The Festival of Light approaches and we still lack a sacrifice. A volunteer is better, but you’ll do.’

  ‘You can’t sacrifice me!’ said Justina in outrage. ‘It wouldn’t be legal.’

  ‘It’ll be legal enough by the time I’ve finished with you,’ said Ek. ‘We’ll give it a trial to tidy up the legalisms.’

  Ek liked trials. He liked to see people squirm. Besides, he wanted to preserve the life of the Thrug. For a few days, at least. For if he could not divine the secrets of the ‘skavamareen’ through his own efforts then he would have to torture the Thrug or her companion to remedy this deficiency in his education.

  ‘What about me?’ said Olivia.

  ‘We’ll put you on trial as well.’

  ‘Isn’t there . . . isn’t there anything else I could do?’ said Olivia.

  And the young Ashdan lass tilted her head slightly to one side, softened the outlines of her body, moulded her lips into a banana-tasting pout, and breathed more heavily than before.

  All this to some effect.

  For Ek hesitated.

  He was tempted.

  But, in the end, caution bade him answer in the negative. For he possessed a healthy respect for those of Ashdan race, a respect verging on fear.

  Fear?

  You may think this ridiculous.

  For, after all, Olivia was only a girl, regardless of the fact that she liked to think of herself as a woman. Her bones were those of a bird. Yet she was an Ashdan, and those who have remarked that the only safe Ashdan is a dead Ashdan have not committed themselves to such opinion in error.

  Master Ek indulged in the first minor pleasure then said:

  ‘There is nothing you can do for me. Unless you care to offer yourself as a sacrifice for the Festival of Light. If such is not your choice, then you go on trial with your Empress.’

  ‘For what?’ said Olivia, masking her dismay with defiance.

  ‘There will be, I believe, a great many charges,’ said Master Ek. ‘For example, offhand I can think of some fifty-seven charges of high treason alone. And—’

  Ek elaborated.

  But, to his disappointment, neither Justina nor Olivia indulged in any visible squirming.

  Never mind.

  Their spirits would surely break at some time during the trial.

  ‘We will commit you to trial this very day,’ said Ek, eager to begin the process of spirit-breaking.

  ‘Then I demand legal representation,’ said Justina. ‘For myself and for Olivia here.’

  ‘You will have it,’ said Ek. ‘Dardanalti is your counsel, is he not? I will send for him.’

  Dardanalti was duly sent for, and was on hand to defend the Empress when the trial began.

  The trial commenced in the Star Chamber, scene of a great many legal battles. Dardanalti, fearing a swift conclusion and the consequent execution of his client, strove mightily for delay. He was a good lawyer, the most conscientious advocate on Untunchilamon; and, if desperate need arose, he was not even above stooping to unlawyerly violence. He brought all his wit, guile and cunning into play, producing precedents, petitions and complicated motions by the score. He sought to have the trial postponed until three score character witnesses could be obtained from Wen Endex. Then he tried to persuade the court that his client was a victim of insanity.

  But all those manoeuvres failed.

  As salahanthara exhausted itself and undokondra commenced, the last of Dardanalti’s petitions for a delay was dismissed; but, as night had set in, the proceedings were then adjourned until the start of the next daylight.

  Justina slept well enough that night, for she had almost been obliterated by the labour of manoeuvring the organic rectifier through the mazeways Downstairs. Olivia, who was younger, and more resilient in body, spent much of the night in sleepless anxiety, worrying both about herself and her dearest Chegory. She even spared a thought for her aunt, the formidable Artemis Ingalawa. Master Ek had said nothing of Ingalawa, so . . . what had happened to her? Was she lost Downstairs? Or dead? Or a prisoner either below ground or above?

  Such thoughts kept Olivia awake for long; but at last she too succumbed to oblivion. And when she woke - so stiff and sore from her underground labours that it felt as if all her joints were made out of old cracked leather - it was morning.

  The morning of her trial.

  Meantime, Pelagius Zozimus was still suffering through the cycle of transformations to which he had been doomed by the Powers of the ill-coordinated Nixorjapretzel Rat. While the metamorphic rate had slowed, Zozimus was still changing, at one time becoming a budgerigar and at another time becoming a kangeroo.

  (This ‘kangeroo’, which may not be familiar to all my readers, is a beast which inhabits the deserts of Paren-garenga. It has no feet, yet is mobile to a considerable degree, precipitating itself across the landscape by means of the singularly athletic tail which is its sole means of locomotion. The natives of the place fear it greatly, for it has the habit of kidnapping young children, which it stores in a special pocket built into the fur of its chest. These children it kills and consumes when hunger befalls it; but it keeps the teeth, and there are documented cases of hunters recovering as many as a thousand molars from the corpses of one of these monsters. It is not known whether Zozimus kidnapped -or ate - any children while he was briefly incarnated as such a brute, but he certainly gave one or two night-walkers an extraordinary fright.)

  While Olivia and Justina breakfasted on chunks of cold cassava, strips of third-grade seaweed and lozenges of dried jellyfish, the hapless Pelagius Zozimus was undergoing a particularly unpleasant transformation. As a result of this, he manifested himself as something which looked for all the world like a large animated turd.

  When one knows of someone suffering grievous misfortune, one may be tempted to cheer them up by giving them examples of people who are enduring far worse. To the man who has no shoes one mentions the man who has no feet. To the man with no feet one preaches the noble example of the courageous cripple making his way through life with both legs amputated above the knee. A cripple thus disfigured who refuses to be cheerful will be—

  But you know the rest.

  (Or, if the rest is unknown, an account of it will be found in Lady Jade’s treatise On the Consolation of Cripples, Mutants and Ghosts.)

  Accordingly, had one of the wise had access to the Empress Justina and Olivia Qasaba in their time of trials, he might have sought to raise their spirits by comparing their own misfortunes to those of the unfortunate Pelagius Zozimus. At least Justina and Olivia had constant possession of their own bodies from one moment to the next, whereas Zozimus might at any moment find himself converted to a shoe horn, a starfish or a cucumber.

  (The implication of the above is that the wise are male in gender. Some of the unwise may object to this; but the fact is that to be truly wise one must be a philosopher, ideally a Korugatu philosopher; and, biologically, females of the human species have a capacity for alcohol which is far less than that possessed by the male, which
means they find themselves handicapped if they try to live the philosophical life to the full. Hence the predominance of the male of the species in the field of wisdom.)

  In the absence of any consoling words from the wise, both Justina Thrug and Olivia Qasaba found their spirits considerably depressed that morning; and the arrival of Dardanalti was insufficient to dissipate their mutual gloom.

  ‘Any good news?’ said Justina to Dardanalti.

  ‘The rain’s stopped.’

  ‘Any bad news, then?’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘Out with it!’

  Dardanalti confessed. There was bad news. Artemis Ingalawa had been caught at dawn while trying to get to the island of Jod.

  ‘What’s happened to her?’ said Olivia.

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Dardanalti.

  That was the truth.

  But all three shortly found out.

  For, when Justina Thrug and Olivia Qasaba were taken to the Star Chamber for the resumption of their trial, Artemis Ingalawa was produced in that place, and was there arraigned alongside Justina and Olivia. The Ashdan algorithmist had acquired a black eye, and her nose was so swollen that Olivia thought it might be broken.

  ‘Did they beat you?’ whispered Olivia.

  ‘I,’ said Ingalawa, ‘gave as good as I got. Don’t worry about it.’

  Wise counsel, this, for a couple of bruises meant nothing in the context of a disaster so total.

  The trial of Justina Thrug et al. attracted the attention of everyone of any importance in Injiltaprajura, including Shabble. The lord of light and laughter very much wanted to go and see the trial, but Uckermark vetoed this, saying that it was better that both of them stay away from the pink palace.