by Hugh Cook
‘Then let it,’ said Justina. ‘For I am wearied unto death.’
The Empress Justina had a certain appetite for histrionics, but in this instance she spoke nothing less than the truth. Nevertheless, she had some business to do before she could rest.
‘Artemis,’ said Justina.
‘What do you want?’ said Ingalawa.
‘We need to retrieve the skavamareen which Master Ek is holding in the Temple of Torture. The Crab will not be pleased if its delivery is delayed.’
‘I will go to the Temple and see to its release immediately,’ said Ingalawa.
Ingalawa knew, as did Justina, that there was scarcely one chance in ten thousand that Master Ek would hand over the ‘skavamareen’. It was far more likely that the High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral guessed this ancient instrument to be an organic rectifier. And that, in hope of making himself immortal, he meant to hold on to it.
But it was worth trying the bluff.
After all, they were so close to triumph.
They had an organic rectifier.
All they needed now was to take the thing to Jod.
Then the Crab could be converted to human form, and in gratitude the Crab would surely exert all its Powers to solve their problems.
Artemis Ingalawa departed on her mission, all signs of fatigue successfully subdued.
‘I want to go home,’ said Olivia, who as yet was unaware of the doom which had befallen the Dromdanjerie.
So then the poor child had to be told (by Dardanalti) that Injiltaprajura’s bedlam had been burnt to the ground; and that her father, the eminent Ashdan therapist Jon Qasaba, was missing, believed dead.
This final tragedy devastated the Ashdan lass. Her father! Dead? Impossible. She could not believe he was dead for he was her father, her very own, and death was something which only happened to other people’s fathers. But certainly he was missing. And poor Chegory was trapped leagues underground with that huge therapist thing, a monster worse than a spider, a shark and an octopus rolled into one.
Olivia broke down and wept.
The Empress Justina took Olivia in hand. Then the Empress led the child to the imperial quarters. Two soldiers were standing on guard outside the door. For years these men had given their loyalty to Justina. But now?
‘Whom do you obey?’ said Justina.
Assaulting them with the question just so. Bluntly. No preliminary questions, no enquiries after their meals and pay, no smiles or hellos. The strain was telling on the Empress, hence the deterioration in her manners.
‘We obey Manthandros Trasilika, the duly authorized wazir sent to take command of Untunchilamon,’ said one of the soldiers stiffly.
‘And me?’ said Justina.
‘In so far as a wazir’s guest can command a soldier.’
‘A guest, am I?’ said Justina, her temper rising.
‘So I am told,’ said the soldier. ‘I ask no more. I am a soldier. I exist only to obey.’
Justina had a thing or two she wanted to say in reply to that. But one glance at Olivia told the Empress this was no time to make a scene. The child needed safety, comfort, the assurance of some kind of peace, at least for the moment. So, without another word to either of the soldiers, Justina led Olivia into the imperial quarters.
They had been looted.
Some diligent staff members had endeavoured to clean up the mess, and had done so to the best of their ability. But still the evidence of ruin was everywhere. A great many things had been wantonly torn and destroyed, including much which was beautiful. That made Justina furious. Theft she could understand, but not vandalism.
An unaccustomed trembling afflicted the imperial limbs as Justina went into her bedroom and realized what had been done there. The place had been cleaned and the bed linen changed, but a certain stench still lingered.
‘How dare they!’ said Justina.
Olivia picked at a shattered mirror which threw back their faces in pieces. Olivia pried away one of her own eyes. Then threw down the shattering of mirror-glass.
‘There’s a spare bedroom,’ said Justina, opening another door. ‘In here.’
A drift of chicken feathers stirred around the imperial feet as Justina entered that chamber. The feathers indicated that one of Theodora’s chickens (or more than one?) had met an untimely end in this room. On the spare bed, the Princess Sabitha was curled up, comfortably devoting herself to digestion. As the Empress entered, the princess woke, stretched, and yawned. She looked very, very pleased with herself.
‘I don’t believe you’ve met,’ said Justina. ‘Olivia, this is Sabitha Winolathon Taskinjathrua. Sabitha, meet Olivia.’
So saying, the Empress removed the Princess Sabitha from the imperial bed and conveyed her to Olivia’s arms. Considering the heat of the day, one might think that the least desirable of all possible presents would be an idiothermous cat stuffed with chicken. But Olivia took the Princess Sabitha into her arms, hugged her, and was comforted by the possession of this new friend.
‘If you want to lie down on the bed,’ said Justina, ‘feel free. I have to check my study.’
Olivia did lie down, and Justina did check the study. It was strangely untouched, probably because it was the poorest room in the imperial quarters. But something was missing. The dragon. The dragon Untunchilamon. There was no sign of that fingerlength beast. Instead, the dragon’s nest of cat’s fur and feather-fluff held an ovoid opal, a thing curiously flecked with bits of black.
‘A present?’ said Justina.
Perhaps someone had stolen her dragon and had left the bright-brilliant opal as a guilt offering.
Justina bent closer to appraise the gem. Then saw the bits of black were not flecks at all. They were ants! But why would ants attack an inedible stone? Out of madness?
‘Good gracious!’ said Justina. ‘It must be an egg!’
And a long-lost memory stirred. A traumatic memory from her girlhood when she had tried to raise a chrysalis to its butterfly glory. That had been in Wen Endex at the height of summer. (Yes, Wen Endex had a summer, and fierce heat to go with it, for all that Justina chose to remember it as a place of snowbound winter.) Ants had laid siege to the helpless pupa, and the butterfly had died unborn. Had died a hideous, disgusting death which had left Justina red-eyed and weeping.
‘Such was your triumph,’ said Justina, addressing the ants in a stern and terrible voice. ‘Such was your triumph when I was but a child. But you behold me now as a woman!’
Then she tried to blow the ants away:
Wwwwwssssh!
A dozen nest-feathers kicked to the air then snow-drifted down. But the ants blew away not, but clung tight to the sheer and the smooth of the egg. In truth a mighty feat! Indeed, the obstinacy of ants in the face of winds natural or otherwise is one of the very wonders of the universe.
‘You can’t win, you know,’ said Justina.
And was tempted to crush the ants out of hand, obliterating their paltry lives entirely. She resisted the temptation, though not without a struggle.
‘But you will be displaced,’ said she.
Indeed.
But, once displaced, the ants could always come back again.
‘A problem,’ said Justina, wondering how to guard the egg till it hatched.
She could always call in her soldiers. Yes, and have them stand watch by sun and moon alike, guarding the egg with chopsticks and stabs until at last and at length it hatched. But such trifling with masculine pride might well provoke mutiny.
Besides . . .
They might say the ‘wazir’s guest’ had no right to order them to such duties.
‘And, in any case . . .
Maybe the egg would never hatch.
With more than a touch of disappointment, Justina realized the egg was most unlikely to be viable. For the bright-brave dragon Untunchilamon was unique, created ab initio by a demon. She lacked a mate hence the egg could not have been fertilized.
‘Yet,’ said Justina, ‘parthen
ogenesis is always a possibility.’
Was she deluding herself?
Perhaps.
But:
‘Everyone deserves a chance,’ said Justina firmly.
So saying, the Empress took a feather and whisked away the ants. Then treasured the egg on to a piece of blotting paper which she placed upon a saucer. She put the saucer atop the rocky island which rose from the limpid depths of her fish tank. That would surely secure the egg from assault by ants.
‘But,’ said Justina, voicing that single word as she contemplated the exquisite vulnerability of the egg.
Yes. But. Attack might still come from the air. Who knows? Supposing the egg was hatched by night? Supposing mosquitoes attacked the tiny egg-wet hatchling? The Empress had a horrifying vision of a helpless newborn dragonet being monstered by a dozen or more merciless vampiric insects.
‘The poor thing would perish!’ said Justina.
That she talked so persistently to herself on this occasion is no mystery. Her position was one of exquisite loneliness, for she could trust few and bare her soul to no-one. Such are the burdens of imperial power, though we should not necessarily pity the powerful on that account; after all, many a beggar endures deprivations of the soul equally as agonizing, yet without enjoying any of the many concomitant consolations.
(A pedant might argue that the Empress had lost power entirely. But this would be a misreading. She still commanded the loyalty of certain powerful people, hence would be a source of hope for her allies and a danger to her enemies until she was very definitely dead.)
‘Well,’ said Justina. ‘Mosquitoes are no match for me!’
Then she went to her sewing room and sought out netting of the finest mesh, impervious to ants and mosquitoes alike. This she stretched across the top of her fish tank, anchoring the fabric with four of her finest soljamimpambagoya rocks. She took the greatest of pleasure imaginable in this work of her hands, simple work soon brought to decisive ends; in work she found a welcome forgetting of the woes of the world and the urgencies of the moment.
Then she sat down to watch the egg.
‘A beautiful thing,’ said she.
It was.
‘And to think!’ said she. ‘The mother delinquent! The egg besieged by ants!’
Then it occurred to her that some mishap might have befallen the mother. The valorous Untunchilamon might be dead. If so, then this egg might be the sole hope of an entire race.
‘Oh my!’ said Justina, momentarily overwhelmed by her awesome responsibility. ‘A new species! And this its sole chance of posterity!’
She was so overcome that she thought it best to take a little wine to settle her nerves. This she did, though whether her recourse to such a potent drug was wise is an open question. True, the Empress Justina had the statutory authority to order a Prescription for any or all. And it must be admitted that she had the most impeccable of academic qualifications to back such authority, since she was the proud possessor of a degree from the College of Medicine. Nevertheless, physicians tend to frown upon the self-prescription of controlled drugs, and with reason; for the abuse of such liberty is all too tempting, and can rapidly lead to the torments of addiction.
However, whether the Empress was wise or unwise to indulge herself with wine, it must be admitted that a modest quantity of this smooth-flowing fluid helped soothe her nerves remarkably. A deep and pervading calm possessed her as she gazed upon the opalescent egg and the shimmer-drift of the dragonfire fish which inhabited the aquarium. Without, perhaps the sky was falling; or perhaps it happened that the very world was ending. But here Justina enjoyed the meditations of the moment, that moment which, at any given time, is all the life we have to live.
After a second dole of such medicine, the Empress went to see whether Olivia was all right. She found the young Ashdan lass sound asleep in the imperial bed with the Princess Sabitha in her arms. That compliant creature of fur looked up as Justina entered.
‘You haven’t by chance seen a dragon?’ said Justina.
The Princess Sabitha yawned.
‘A small dragon,’ persisted the Empress. ‘A dragon no longer than this finger of mine.’
So saying, Justina Thrug waggled that appendage at the self-indulgent young royal. The Princess Sabitha smirked, but said nothing. And, further interrogation proving equally as fruitless, the Empress Justina laid herself down beside Olivia Qasaba and joined her in sleep.
Justina did not wake until Artemis Ingalawa returned with the news.
The bad news.
Ingalawa had visited the Temple of Torture to demand the return of the ‘skavamareen’ which Master Ek had confiscated. And she had been decisively rebuffed.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Until the burning of Injiltaprajura, Chegory Guy and Olivia Qasaba had ruled Untunchilamon by pretending they spoke for the Crab. But now all communication with the Crab had ceased - the harbour bridge had been destroyed and the island of Jod was under quarantine -all the citizens of Injiltaprajura realized that no orders were currently being issued by the monstrous crustacean of whom they were so afraid.
It will now be asked: who then was effectively ruling Injiltaprajura at this time? And the best answer is: nobody.
While one renowned historian has stated that ‘Injiltaprajura was ruled toward the end by the lawless banditry of the drummers’, such statements are a gross absurdity. The only bandit on Untunchilamon who could have ruled that city was Jal Japone, and that formidable Janjuladoola warlord was still keeping to his desert fastness in the northern regions of the island.
Within Injiltaprajura itself, a few people obeyed Wazir Trasilika because they feared him to be an appointee of Aldarch the Third. Take for example the case of Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek. The High Priest of the Temple of Zoz the Ancestral was such a prominent person in Untunchilamon that his activities would inevitably be reviewed by the Mutilator of Yestron.
Ek was at least half convinced that Trasilika was a fraud. Nevertheless, Ek had confirmed Trasilika as wazir (on a provisional basis).
Because Master Ek could not afford to take chances.
But others could.
Others felt free to reserve judgement altogether until Jean Froissart had been proved either true or false in trial by ordeal. If Froissart proved a true priest then they would accept Trasilika as wazir. Until then, they felt under no immediate obligation to pay the taxes or to obey any law which was unduly inconvenient.
While many reserved judgement, there were a few who were entirely certain about Trasilika. One such person was Juliet Idaho. And, on the morning of the day after Justina’s release from trial, Idaho discussed the advent of Trasilika with his wife as they went through their daybreak routines.
Juliet Idaho and his wife Harold had just moved into one of the grand houses in Lak Street, a mansion lying across the road from that huge ship-sized chunk of bone known as Pearl. The Empress Justina had placed the villa in Idaho’s care lest looters debauch the place; it belonged to a merchant who had disappeared on the night of Injiltaprajura’s great fire, so it was otherwise unprotected.
‘Trasilika,’ said Idaho, ‘He’s another false wazir. A fraud.’
He spoke with some savagery.
‘Never mind, darling,’ said Harold, lathering her face with soap suds.
‘I do mind,’ said Idaho. ‘I can’t stand frauds. I’m going to kill him.’
‘Maybe,’ said Harold, starting to shave, ‘you should ask Justina first.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘She might have a use for the man,’ said Harold.
‘Maybe,’ said Idaho. ‘I’ll check. Then I’ll kill him. And that fool Froissart!’
‘I really don’t see why it’s so very very important for you to kill people,’ said Harold.
‘You wouldn’t,’ said Idaho. ‘You’re not a man.’
Then he watched critically as his wife shaved her heavy jowels. As Juliet Idaho had no facial hair, he never had to
go through this routine himself. He began doing the isometric exercises which helped maintain his strength, that strength being considerable for all that his body was short on muscle bulk.
Juliet Idaho was a hard man, his muscles weapons of combat. In contrast, Harold’s flesh was soft and sloppy, her flesh dedicated to luxurious pleasures. That morning, Idaho wished he could stay and enjoy the delights of love with his lady, but his duty commanded him to the pink palace. So, after a brief breakfast of raw bananas, Idaho left his new mansion and started up Lak Street toward Pokra Ridge.
The streets were outwardly quiet. But then, why should they not be? Though Injiltaprajura was technically in a state of anarchy, for the most part it was outwardly calm. There were many reasons for this. One was that nobody wished to call attention to themselves by a truly spectacular act of individual disobedience. For, whether Manthandros Trasilika was a true wazir or a false wazir, all the city was convinced that Aldarch Three had triumphed in Talonsklavara, and that his wrath would eventually fall on anyone notorious for civic indiscipline,
So outbreaks of looting and such would have to wait until another anonymous mob was formed. Mob formation might take a while. The most accomplished rabble rousers had escaped to sea after the dragon riots which had seen a third of Injiltaprajura burnt to the ground. With them had gone the wealth of the imperial treasury. Thus the main temptation to violence had been removed from Untunchilamon, and the greatest revolutionary leaders had fled with their ill-gotten gains.
Hence peace of a sort prevailed, and Juliet Idaho met with no challenge to his skin or his pocket as he sweated up Lak Street toward the pink palace. In that palace, the Empress Justina was in conference with Manthandros Trasilika and Jean Froissart. The wazir and his priest, unaware of the rapid approach of a Y udonic Knight who meant to kill them as soon as he could, were discussing the proposed trial by ordeal and the banquet at which it would take place.
‘Since my confirmation as wazir is only provisional,’ said Trasilika, ‘Ek can revoke it at any time.’
‘And will, if we don’t satisfy him,’ said Froissart.
‘So we need this trial by ordeal,’ said Trasilika. ‘And fast.’
