The Wazir and the Witch

by Hugh Cook

  They halted.

  ‘Shabble,’ said the corpse-master. ‘Take a look ahead.’

  The imitator of suns emitted a low hum, spun thrice, then floated round the corner up ahead.

  The humans waited.

  For some considerable time.

  Froissart took stock. The floor underfoot was a fine-meshed brown. He scuffed at it with his boots. It distorted, then reformed itself as before. Strange. Overhead, a dull grey ceiling of puddled roughwork plaster, or something which looked strangely like it. The walls were a sunset orange mottled with growths which looked like lichens and slit with jagged cracks like the crazed knifework of a manic murderer. From those wounds there slowly oozed gross globs of green and grey.

  As Froissart speculated on the nature of that flux, he laid two fingers alongside his windpipe. Felt the skin hot, sweaty. Pushed in. Felt his pulse heavy-thumping. Slow, slow. Slow again. A pause. Lengthening. Had his heart stopped? No, for there it was again.

  Slow-thump, slow-thump . . . pause . . . slow-thump.

  He lived.

  For the moment.

  And that slow and steady rhythm spoke of strength and health, did it not? For he had paced long through the underworld, ascending stairs and up-tilted tunnels; yet his heart spoke more of sedentary peace. But then, that organ had been allowed plenty of recovery time by now, for the free-floating sun which was exploring ahead had been gone for an unconscionable time.

  Froissart reached out and touched the slow outbirth of strangeness, finding the globs of green and grey to be gelid and slightly tacky. He brought his fingers to his nose. Smelt no odour. If the oozing stuff had a scent, it was not strong enough to defeat that of sewage.

  At last, the floating bubble returned.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Shabble. ‘The pergot’s elsewhere.’

  ‘Pergot?’ said Trasilika. ‘What’s a pergot?’

  ‘A thing which drinks blood,’ said Uckermark.

  ‘It would seem you risk much to bring us this way,’ said Froissart, wondering at Uckermark’s motives.

  ‘Much I may dare when Shabble is with me,’ said Uckermark. ‘Otherwise, there’s many tunnels down here that I’d not chance on my own.’

  As for Uckermark’s motives, these were scarcely mysterious. The advent of a new wazir (or someone claiming to be a wazir) was sure to change the history of Untunchilamon. Given first access to such a dignitary, Justina Thrug and her minions could alter events in their own favour. And Uckermark, while his future was bound to that of the Cult of the Holy Cockroach, was nevertheless prepared to grant Justina her chance on account of certain residual loyalties and acknowledged debts.

  Besides which, Uckermark both feared and disliked Master Ek. It was Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek who had granted the Cockroach Cult its present status as a Protected Religion. As legal counsel for the High Priest of a religion of such status, Uckermark was safe from the wrath of Aldarch Three. However, what Master Ek had given he could take away; and Uckermark grimly suspected that any absolute triumph for Master Ek might lead that dignitary to take freely and without hesitation.

  Thus Uckermark sought to prolong the life and liberties of the Empress Justina for at least a little longer; for, in his present role as Shabble’s advocate, the corpse-master was doing very nicely for himself, a full three per cent of all Shabble’s monies finding their way into Uckermark’s pockets.

  As Uckermark and his guests continued on their way, the bright-bobbing Shabble, confident that they were past those dangers which truly demanded vigilance, began to indulge Shabbleself in the preaching of holy doctrine.

  ‘Worship the cockroach,’ said Shabble, ‘and you will be reborn as cockroach. Such is the bliss! Never to know hunger, never to pay rent, never to endure the multitudinous pangs and pains of the human form. Holy is the cockroach and hallowed is His name. Happy is the cockroach and happy are we who will become cockroach.’

  All this said Shabble, and more; but the newcomers had yet to be converted to the Cult by the time they reached the Moremo Maximum Security Prison, where guards intercepted them as they ascended from the lower dungeons. Uckermark knew these warders, and held them to silence with a gesture; seeing that Shabble was with him, they obeyed without question, falling in behind the corpse-master as an honour guard.

  As Uckermark led the way onward and upward, Manthandros Trasilika asked no questions, thinking that what was left of his dignity would best be preserved by a decorous silence. But his priest was not so continent.

  ‘Where are we now?’ said Jean Froissart, catching a glimpse of a moody sky through a slit window.

  ‘In prison,’ said Uckermark. ‘Moremo Maximum Security Prison.’

  ‘I have to go now,’ said Shabble, who had spied that same window.

  ‘Go?’ said Uckermark. ‘Where?’

  ‘We’re sacrificing,’ said Shabble in great excitement. ‘Had you forgotten? We’re sacrificing a Sacred Moth to the Holy Cockroach. Today. Remember?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Uckermark. ‘I remember. Off you go then.’ Whereupon Shabble, imitating a teenage cultist, drum-rumbled thrice then slipped out into the open air.

  Uckermark was disappointed to see the imitator of suns flirt away through the window, for there were responsibilities (the carriage of messages and such) which he would liked to have placed upon that jaunting bubble. But the corpse-master knew he would lose Shabble’s services entirely if he tried to compel the eternal child with disciplines alien to its nature. Shabble would do much if persuaded that the doing was fun. But, as Ivan Pokrov had ultimately discovered, Shabble was not prepared to be a slave.

  ‘You mean to hold us here as prisoners?’ said Froissart, once Shabble had departed.

  ‘No,’ said Uckermark. ‘Merely to provide you with . . . with private conference facilities.’

  And he refused to say more until he had introduced his guests to Bro Drumel. This most anxious of warriors, the semi-suicidal career soldier whom Nixorjapretzel Rat had earlier tried to blackmail, still had control of Moremo, for Master Ek had not yet seen fit to remove him from the post of Governor. Indeed, why should Ek interfere? The management of a squabbling brood of prisoners meant nothing to him; and, if Drumel was ultimately to be judged as a traitor, there would be plenty enough time later for his arrest, trial and execution.

  Despite his many worries, Bro Drumel laughed out loud when Manthandros Trasilika declared himself warrior. That disconcerted Jean Froissart more than anything else which had happened to date.

  ‘So,’ said Drumel, when he had recovered himself. ‘You are wazir, are you? What next, then? Mutilator of Yestron?’

  ‘Humour ill becomes either you or the occasion,’ said Trasilika, who was very close to losing his temper. ‘Aldarch the Third has pulled fingernails for less.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Bro Drumel, sobering somewhat. ‘But we have killed one Manthandros Trasilika already, and one Jean Froissart. If there is a penalty for killing members of such breeds, then we are damned already. And if we kill them not - why, then our island risks overpopulation. For—’

  That did it.

  Manthandros Trasilika lost his temper.

  An impressive sight he made in his rage; and many were the spectres of doom which he invoked as he cursed Bro Drumel. All to virtually nil effect. For Drumel was convinced that this Trasilika was as much of an imposter as the first.

  ‘Very well,’ said Uckermark, once Trasilika had said his piece. ‘Now we know who he is, or who he pretends to be. Where can we stash him for the moment?’

  ‘It’ll have to be in my personal quarters,’ said Bro Drumel. ‘Unless you want him clamped in fetters below.’

  Uckermark thought about it.

  ‘Your quarters,’ said he at last. ‘At least for the moment.’

  Bro Drumel rang for guards and had the two children of Wen Endex taken away.

  ‘Well,’ said Drumel, when that had been done. ‘What do you want to do with them? Sell them to Master Ek as
sacrifices? Or what?’

  ‘I thought we could use them,’ said Uckermark.

  ‘Use them! They’re patent frauds.’

  ‘That may be so,’ said Uckermark. ‘But let’s see what Dardanalti has to say before we write them off entirely.’ After some persuading, Bro Drumel sent word to the pink palace: a message to tell Dardanalti he was wanted in Moremo. Then, Uckermark joined the new Manthandros Trasilika and the new Jean Froissart in Drumel’s quarters.

  Uckermark, a veteran of many long sea journeys himself, had the wit to have fresh food served to those quarters simultaneously with his own arrival, a move calculated to soften the temper of the obstreperous Trasilika.

  ‘Well,’ said Trasilika, when Uckermark entered his presence, ‘what now?’

  ‘We wait,’ said Uckermark.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I’ve sent for someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  Uckermark merely smiled.

  ‘Are you a torturer?’ said Froissart, studying Uckermark’s scars and tattoos.

  ‘I’ve introduced myself already,’ said Uckermark. ‘I’m a lawyer. Legal counsel for the Cult of the Holy Cockroach. Come. Will you not eat?’

  Uckermark’s guests succumbed to temptation and proceeded to glut themselves. After so many days of shipboard privation, a banana itself was an instrument of delight. Thus it happened that both Froissart and Trasilika were in a much better temper when Dardanalti arrived.

  ‘This,’ said Uckermark, ‘is a man well worth talking to.’

  ‘You do the talking,’ said Trasilika to Froissart. ‘I’ve no patience for argument.’

  As has been earlier remarked, Dardanalti was a dapper individual remarkable for looking crisp and fresh at all times, a truly remarkable achievement in the wilting climate of Untunchilamon. Dardanalti’s appearance made Trasilika acutely conscious of his own overfleshed, sweat-saturated body; and of his fatigue, which owed as much to unacknowledged fear as it did to the long trek underground.

  Froissart resented Trasilika’s abandonment of responsibility; and, opening the negotiations with less formality than politeness strictly required, said (in Toxteth):

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Are you addressing my presence?’ said Dardanalti.

  To understand the scorn of these words, you must understand that they were phrased in Janjuladoola; and, furthermore, that Dardanalti took advantage of the social nuances of that tongue by adopting the forms that one of highest class or caste uses when speaking to an underman.

  ‘We crave acknowledgement,’ said Froissart, switching to Janjuladoola.

  ‘Speak,’ said Dardanalti. ‘Tell me your excuses.’

  This formal phrase, often heard in the courts of Obooloo, invites a guilty person to confess all.

  ‘We have no excuses to make,’ said Froissart, thus declaring his conscience to be clear. ‘We come to these shores on legitimate business. Aldarch the Third has charged us with the responsibility of proclaiming his rule in Injiltaprajura.’

  ‘Your pretensions ill become you,’ said Dardanalti. ‘We have executed one false wazir and priest already. The destruction of another such pair will be but the work of a moment.’

  ‘We ... we are not . . . we . . . I’m telling you the truth,’ said Froissart. ‘Aldarch Three really did make us wazir and priest. We have, we have warrants.’

  ‘Such had the last false wazir,’ said Dardanalti. ‘We of Injiltaprajura are not strangers to the arts of forgery. No piece of parchment can give a fraud the rule of Untunchilamon, for we trust not to parchment alone. Rather, we rely on logic, precedent and interrogation.’ ‘Interrogate, then!’ said Manthandros Trasilika, unable to restrain himself any longer. ‘We’ve a shipload of sailors who will swear to the truth of our tale.’

  ‘Once Master Ek has disembowelled a couple, the rest may begin to sing a different story,’ said Dardanalti. ‘Your claims are ridiculous. Aldarch Three would never make a wazir of a child of Wen Endex. He hates all but those of the Skin.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said Froissart.

  ‘What did you say?’ said Dardanalti.

  There was death in his voice. He was of Janjuladoola race: and no child of Wen Endex may safely insult one of such genesis.

  ‘My lord,’ said Froissart, realizing his error. ‘The ancestors of my ancestors were slaves of your forebears, and I, a slave, grovel at your feet in suppliant apology.’ ‘Truly your tongue is as honey,’ said Dardanalti. ‘But, were I Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek, you would no longer have a tongue at all.’

  ‘I spoke in haste,’ said Froissart.

  ‘But,’ said Dardanalti, ‘perhaps in truth. It would seem you claim for me a lack of comprehension. What, pray tell, is the aspect of reality which escapes my grasp?’

  ‘My lord of lords,’ said Froissart, ‘I meant merely—’

  ‘Explain,’ said Dardanalti, chopping abruptly from Janjuladoola to Toxteth.

  Froissart followed the implications of the language shift. Dardanalti was done with playing at being a Janjuladoola aristocrat in the presence of his racial inferiors. Now he wanted to get down to business.

  ‘Manpower,’ said Froissart, speaking with greater confidence as the empowering simplicities of Toxteth came to his assistance. ‘Al’three has lately been seeking outside the ranks of the Janjuladoola for officers of all descriptions. Talonsklavara has seen such a great slaughter among those of the Skin that other breeds must be employed.’

  ‘As slaves,’ said Dardanalti.

  ‘Talent has no immunity to a scimitar’s blade,’ said Froissart. ‘Those of the Skin can no longer supply an entire empire’s need for talent. Hence Al’three has turned elsewhere. Not for help with the governance of Ang, of course; but for the rule of cities such as Bolfrigalaskaptiko, and the rule of outlands such as Untunchilamon.’

  Dardanalti considered this.

  ‘You sound as if you expect me to be convinced,’ said the Janjuladoola lawyer. ‘But I am not. You suggest major changes in the practices to which Al’three has been devoted. Whatever the truth, Untunchilamon knows nothing of such changes. Friend Uckermark! I wish to speak to you privily. Come, let us withdraw.’

  Then Dardanalti and Uckermark left the newcomers alone.

  Once the Janjuladoola lawyer and the fire-scarred corpse-master had secured their privacy, Dardanalti said:

  ‘We’ll let them sweat for a while.’

  ‘Do you believe them?’ said Uckermark.

  ‘No,’ said Dardanalti, speaking frankly. ‘But, even so, they may have potential. If we can make the world believe them to be genuine.’

  ‘Difficult, difficult,’ said Uckermark. ‘Particularly when they’re such patent frauds. However . . .’

  The corpse-master had an idea.

  Back in Bro Drumel’s quarters, Manthandros Trasilika said to Jean Froissart:

  ‘Well. What do you think our interrogators are talking about?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Froissart. ‘I think they’ve left us here to have discourse with our fear and panic.’

  ‘Then their ends are being fulfilled,’ said Trasilika. ‘I don’t like this at all. I don’t think they believe us.’

  ‘I’m sure they don’t,’ said Froissart.

  ‘But it’s true!’ said Trasilika.

  It was, too.

  Manthandros Trasilika and Jean Froissart had been associated with Aldarch the Third, the dreaded Mutilator of Yestron, thoughout the seven years of Talonsklavara. First they had supplied the Aldarch armies with weaponry, mostly cheap-shatter swords from the Collosnon Empire. Later, after proving themselves as spies, they had helped organize an intelligence service to supply the Mutilator with hard data on his enemies.

  At last, Aldarch III had shown his gratitude by making Manthandros Trasilika the wazir of Bolfrigalaskaptiko (albeit briefly) and by then dispatching him to Untunchilamon with Jean Froissart as his priest.

  ‘What now, then?’ said Trasilika.

  ‘Sleep,’
answered Froissart simply.

  ‘Most excellent of counsels!’ said Trasilika.

  And the two men laid themselves down on Bro Drumel’s couches to rest, conserving their energies for whatever challenges their captors might next confront them with.

  Both children of Wen Endex were sound asleep when Dardanalti and Uckermark returned in the company of a figure both cowled and masked.

  ‘May we know your name?’ said Froissart to the personage thus so strangely garbed.

  ‘This man is for the moment but an observer,’ said Dardanalti. ‘He comes from Justina’s household. Apart from that, his name and genesis do not concern you.’ ‘Then why is he here?’ said Froissart.

  ‘Because he has a certain expertise in the conduct of trials by ordeal,’ said Dardanalti.

  ‘What?!’ said Froissart. ‘You don’t mean—’

  ‘You heard me,’ said Dardanalti remorselessly. ‘You know yourself thought a fraud. There is only this single way for you to prove yourself.’

  ‘What way?’ said Manthandros Trasilika in some bewilderment.

  ‘He knows,’ said Dardanalti, nodding at Froissart. ‘Tell,’ said Trasilika curtly.

  ‘There is one way for you to prove yourself,’ said Dardanalti, addressing himself to Froissart.

  Who did not answer.

  ‘How?’ said Manthandros Trasilika.

  ‘If your priest will undergo trial by ordeal to prove himself true,’ said Dardanalti, ‘then his survival of such trial must necessarily prove the truth of his words.’

  ‘I have documents to prove my case,’ said Froissart desperately. ‘I’m a priest of Zoz. Five years ago I converted.’

  ‘We’ve been through all that,’ said Dardanalti, with a trace of weariness. ‘The last wazir and priest also had documents. Perfect documents. They died.’

  ‘We can prove who they were,’ said Froissart. ‘Associates of ours, that’s who they were. I can guess their, their names. They must’ve been—’

  ‘Names from your past mean nothing to our future,’ said Dardanalti. ‘What matters is that you are outwardly no different to those we executed.’

  ‘No different,’ said Froissart.

  ‘Those we slaughtered were children of Wen Endex unknown to any in Untunchilamon,’ said Dardanalti.