The Wazir and the Witch

by Hugh Cook

  Later, Froissart had lost his faith. He had become an agnostic: a secret doubter, but never an open apostate.

  Why did Froissart lose his faith?

  Partly because, as the uncertainties of youth had been replaced by the confidence of manhood, he had lost his need to believe so fervently in anything. Then he had met with a wandering Korugatu philosopher who had wrecked his faith by long conversation over many nights of drinking.

  (A mystery, this, since the Korugatu philosophers are based in Chi’ash-lan. How did such a one come to Yestron? Here your storyteller would fable some farfetched explanation, but the honest historian must confess ignorance.)

  Froissart’s Korugatu philosopher acknowledged, of course, that the gods exist. This is beyond dispute, for deities prove themselves often by working miracles, manifesting themselves upon battlefields and answering prayers. Adroit sacrifice will nearly always bring results from Above, or from Below, or from the Sideways Realms. Therefore we cannot doubt that the Higher Ones (and the Lower Ones, the Sideways Ones and the Inverted Ones) do exist (and perhaps will continue to exist in the future).

  But, claimed the sage, that the gods exist in the forms humanity attributes to them is far less certain. It is the way of priesthoods to pretend to a certain knowledge of the minds of the gods. But to know our own minds is near impossible, so how can we be so sure of those of beings alien to us?

  In the face of these arguments and much alcohol, Froissart’s faith had at last collapsed. But still he retained his knowledge, hence was easily able to survive a viva voce examination by Master Ek.

  ‘Why do we worship Zoz the Ancestral?’ said Master Ek.

  ‘Because He is the greatest power,’ said Froissart.

  ‘How do we worship Him?’ said Ek.

  ‘By satisfying His demands for pain and death,’ said Froissart.

  ‘Why does Zoz demand pain?’ said Ek.

  ‘Because it proves His power.’

  ‘And why death?’

  ‘Because that proves His power likewise,’ said Froissart.

  ‘What is the greatest good?’ said Ek.

  ‘To yield to power to prevent pain.’

  The catechism proceeded along such lines for some time, until at last Master Ek seemed satisfied.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Ek.

  Then he withdrew, leaving Froissart to sweat. Which Froissart did, in both a physical and a metaphysical sense. Ek had another trick up his sleeve. But what?

  At last the High Priest returned and said:

  ‘A sacrifice has been prepared. You are to sacrifice a vampire rat to the greater glory of Zoz the Ancestral.’

  Jean Froissart was conducted to the naos of the Temple, where a rat was waiting for sacrifice. Froissart passed this test perfectly.

  Ek told him so once they had returned to the interrogation chamber.

  ‘You have passed,’ said Ek.

  Then he smiled.

  At least, his mouth smiled. So did his eyes. But his ears and his eyebrows did not.

  ‘A penitent thanks the lord who serves the Lord of Lords,’ said Froissart formally.

  ‘Your thanks are welcome,’ said Ek. ‘Will you share a drink with me?’

  ‘With pleasure,’ said Froissart.

  Ek tried to snap his fingers. He failed, and a spasm of pain shot through his hand. He cursed his arthritis, and said:

  ‘The drinks.’

  An acolyte entered bearing a small tray on which there were two cups. Ek took one and sipped slowly. Froissart took the other and drank, but more rapidly.

  ‘Strong stuff,’ said he in surprise.

  ‘But good,’ said Ek.

  Then he waited.

  But, to Ek’s surprise, Froissart did not collapse on the ground in a babbling heap. Instead, he calmly drank down the rest of his drink.

  To conceal his confusion, Ek lit a fresh cigarette. Somehow, this damnable Froissart had made himself immune to the poisons which had just been used on him. There were ways to do that, of course. The taking of an antidote. Or the swallowing of graduated doses to build up immunity. Ek drew upon his cigarette. Exhaled smoke. Thinking.

  Watching Ek smoke, Froissart briefly wondered whether the old man was a dragon in disguise. Then he dismissed the notion. He tried to speak, but found it an effort. Ek’s silence was of such intensity that it took courage to venture to breach it.

  ‘My lord,’ said Froissart, finding that courage, ‘before I go, I wish to have leave to make a petition.’

  Ek said nothing, so Froissart rushed on:

  ‘Might I possibly be excused from tonight’s trial by ordeal?’

  Did the quality of Ek’s silence change? Froissart fancied it did. And the change was not for the better. Frankly, Froissart was afraid. Afraid? He was terrified. Of Ek, and the murderous potential of the High Priest’s powers. Of Justina, too. Could he trust the Thrug? He didn’t think so. Her assurances seemed sincere, but . . . no, he couldn’t trust her. Even if she was committed to his survival, there was so much that could go wrong. He might get hurt. He might get killed on the spot.

  Ek sighed.

  ‘Jean Froissart,’ said Ek, ‘you disappoint me. Untunchilamon urgently needs the rule of a wazir. But we cannot take chances. Your Trasilika must prove himself true. If you will not venture to provide proof by enduring trial by ordeal, then there is another way. You could drink of a formula made by compounding zen with certain other substances which you surely know as well as I do.’ Ek paused, then continued: ‘The formula of which I speak is renowned as a truth drug.’

  ‘I regret,’ said Froissart, ‘that poison was one of the many dangers which assailed both Trasilika and myself in Bolfrigalaskaptiko. We both have a resistance to the compound to which you allude.’

  ‘How unfortunate,’ said Ek. ‘That being so, do you still wish to be excused from your trial by ordeal?’

  Froissart hesitated.

  Then:

  ‘Yes,’ said Froissart. ‘I do ask to be so excused.’

  ‘You wish to be excused the trial by ordeal,’ said Ek, with infinite weariness.

  ‘I do,’ said Jean Froissart.

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘Because I have proved myself true by my knowledge of doctrine. I have proved myself in interrogation.’

  ‘You have shown yourself to be possessed of a good memory,’ said Ek. ‘Nothing more. Your request is denied. Go!’

  Froissart went.

  Once out in the street, he felt a spasm of wrenching pain shock through his chest. He clutched the sweating flesh. Surely he was going to die.

  The stones of the street sighed and chirruped. Purple light squeaked as it escaped from cracks in the fabric of reality. The sky swelled, buckled, burst and reformed. Froissart knew exactly what was happening to him. Ek must have slipped him a truly massive dose of oola. And now the stuff was having an (albeit delayed) effect.

  Oola?

  This concoction, otherwise known as babble-tongue, has as its main active ingredient the dreaded drug zen. Oola has some reputation as a truth drug, but its main effect is to cause hallucinations (and, sometimes, madness).

  The chemical regime which Froissart had followed in Bolfrigalaskaptiko (he had spoken truthfully to Ek about this matter) gave him some partial protection against the effects of the oola he had consumed. Though the sun pulsated and his feet appeared to have turned into buckets of slugmeat, he nevertheless managed to struggle up Goldhammer Rise. A beggar nagged along behind him until at last, hoping to be free of this encumbrance, Froissart dispensed a coin.

  A coin?

  A dragon!

  Once in possession of that golden disk, the beggar redoubled his efforts, determined not to let go of this source of profit. Other beggars joined the procession. And, when Froissart refused to dispense further largesse (he had meant to give the first man a damn, not a dragon) they mugged him.

  Froissart, somewhat the worse for his mugging, struggled uphill to Lak Street then began the wear
y trek to Pokra Ridge. He was devastated. Manthandros Trasilika had assured him their takeover of Untunchilamon would be easy, so easy. And so it should have been! They deserved such a reward for faithfully serving Aldarch the Third all through the years of Talonsklavara. Instead, their profit-taking adventure was turning into a living nightmare.

  Meanwhile, Master Ek was meditating alone.

  Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek had been sitting in solitude in the Temple of Torture ever since Froissart’s departure.

  He was puzzling over a conundrum.

  Jean Froissart seemed to doubt his ability to survive the trial by ordeal. But this was strange. If Froissart was not sure of his ability to pass such a test, why had he volunteered for it in the first place?

  Ek had yet to puzzle out the answer to this when one of his acolytes intruded upon the masterly solitude, claiming to have some new and important intelligence.

  ‘Of what?’ said Ek.

  ‘Of Shabble’s plans.’

  ‘What is it that Shabble plans?’ said Ek.

  ‘A - a festival,’ said the acolyte.

  ‘Festival?’

  ‘On the day of the Festival of Light. Shabble means to sacrifice a loaf of cassava bread and two fruit flies to the greater glory of the Holy Cockroach.’

  ‘That - that monstrous bubble!’ said Ek.

  As invective goes, this was scarcely effective, and surely it represents a totally inadequate response to the blasphemy which Shabble planned to perpetrate. But Ek was labouring under a difficulty, for it is difficult to curse Shabble when the bright and bouncing imitator of suns lacks a face which can be insulted or ancestors who can be denigrated.

  Nevertheless, let no mistake be made. Master Ek was furious, and determined then and there to have a reckoning with Shabble one of these days; or, if not with Shabble, then with Shabble’s priests, lawyers, advisers and congregation.

  When Ek’s anger at last diminished, he started thinking of practical ways in which Shabble could be punished in Shabbleselfs own person, and he came up with—

  Nothing.

  For Shabble, my dears, cannot be hurt by anyone or anything as puny as Master Ek; and, to the great increase of his rage, Ek had to acknowledge as much. By way of compensation, Ek began devising the special tortures with which he would destroy Jean Froissart once Froissart had failed his trial by torture.

  Did some psychic communication take place?

  Did Froissart feel Master Ek’s enmity, despite the distance between them?

  This question cannot be answered with any degree of certainty; nevertheless, it must be recorded that a spasm of especial pain fractured Jean Froissart’s chest as Ek planned Froissart’s destruction.

  By that time, the child of Wen Endex was in the pink palace atop Pokra Ridge, beginning an audience with the Empress Justina.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Justina, seeing pain writ clear across Froissart’s face.

  ‘Yes,’ said Froissart. ‘It’s just a - indigestion or something.’

  ‘You must see my physician,’ said Justina. ‘Koskini Reni, he’s an amazing man. He’s a prescription for everything, if not always a cure. I’ll give you an introduction as soon as our business is finished. But -now that we’re talking about business, what is it you want?’

  ‘To confirm our arrangements for tonight,’ said Froissart.

  ‘Come now,’ said Justina. ‘We’ve been through all that. I’ll give you a magic salve to let you hold the heated iron with ease. There won’t be any pain, no pain at all.’ ‘My confidence would be increased if I could - if I could see this magic salve.’

  ‘Very well then,’ said Justina.

  She delved into her handbag and rummaged about within for some time, at last producing a small oval box. She opened it. And displayed a smear of green grease.

  ‘This is my magic salve,’ said Justina. ‘It will allow you to pick up the iron even when it’s hot enough to make water boil. Or hotter.’

  Froissart was reassured to actually sight the magic salve which had been promised to him. Still:

  ‘My confidence,’ he said, ‘would be enhanced by a test of such power.’

  ‘But,’ said Justina, ‘there is only enough for one use.’ ‘Then,’ said Froissart, struggling to retain his composure, ‘perhaps you could reassure me by telling me the provenance of this substance. Where it comes from, for example. And what guarantees you have of its purity.’

  ‘I made it myself,’ said Justina. ‘Surely you could have guessed that yourself. I’m a witch, as you know.’

  ‘I know no such thing,’ said Froissart, ‘hence am inclined to doubt the powers of your magic salve. If you made it, why can’t you make more?’

  ‘I can, I can,’ said Justina. ‘But the blood of a basilisk is an essential ingredient for such cookery, and Injiltaprajura has not seen a basilisk for the last six years.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ said Froissart. ‘But if you have powers of witchcraft, you can prove them to me here and now. Somehow. If not by making a fire-salve, then by some other method. I need proof. Proof if I am to believe.’

  ‘You’ve proof already,’ said Justina. ‘After all, you brought a warrant from Aldarch Three commanding my execution on that account. A witch, said the warrant. I saw it myself. That’s why I was to be killed.’

  ‘True,’ said Froissart. ‘But, by a witch, we usually mean merely a woman who has intruded on the realms of men.’ ‘And what,’ said Justina, ‘be those realms?’ Whereupon Froissart, who had a didactic bent, said: ‘War, law, business—’

  ‘Enough!’ said Justina, cutting him off. ‘You need proof? Very well. I will give you a demonstration of a witch’s magic. Here I have three glasses. Do you want to handle them?’

  ‘Please,’ said Froissart.

  They were squat drinking glasses. Not wine glasses or tea glasses, or soup glasses. Just ordinary water glasses. (Though here the word ‘ordinary’ applies to those beakers as they were seen by Froissart, who had long been acquainted with wealth, and as they were perceived by Justina, who used them daily in the palace imperial. To the hovel-dwellers of Lubos or the slumland children of Marthandorthan, any item made of glass would have seemed the most extravagant wonder imaginable.)

  ‘Well,’ said Justina. ‘Do you believe I can cause these glasses to fill themselves up with wine?’

  ‘By pouring wine from a bottle, yes.’

  ‘No, silly boy! By magic. Do you believe I can fill them with wine by magic?’ ‘Frankly, no,’ said Froissart.

  ‘Then watch,’ said Justina, placing the three glasses on the table.

  The vitric beakers sat there in a row, the end glasses inverted, the central glass the right way up. Justina made three mystic passes over the glasses. Then watched them as a scorpion watches the dung beetle it plans to claim as its victim.

  ‘Well,’ said Froissart, ‘I see no wine.’

  ‘The operation of magic takes time,’ whispered the Empress. ‘Time. And silence. Wait!’

  But Froissart saw nothing out of the ordinary. Only three glasses sitting on a table. He said as much.

  ‘Very well,’ said the Empress, briskly. ‘Now watch this. I take hold of two glasses, thus. Two, note, not one. I flip-flop these two. Then I take my hands off.’

  The Empress Justina had flip-flopped the middle glass and one of the end glasses. In consequence, the central glass was now inverted and one of the end glasses the right way up.

  ‘You see?’ said Justina triumphantly.

  ‘I’m not blind,’ said Froissart. ‘But—’

  ‘But watch!’

  The Empress took hold of the two inverted glasses and flip-flopped them so they were both standing the right way up. All three glasses were now standing the right way up.

  ‘There!’ she said. ‘I flip-flopped two at once.’

  ‘So?’ said Froissart in bewilderment. ‘So what’s this got to do with wine?’

  Surely the heat had got to the imperial head.

&
nbsp; ‘That comes later,’ said Justina. ‘This is magic enough to be going on with. Two flip-flops, that’s what I did. You saw? By flip-flopping two glasses at a time I managed to make all three stand up the right way.’

  ‘But - but this is lunacy!’ said Froissart. ‘That’s not magic! That’s not even a trick.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ said Justina.

  She flip-flopped the end two glasses.

  ‘See? Two inverted, one the right way up. I flip-flopped two glasses thrice to get two down, one up.’

  ‘So?’ said Froissart.

  Justina rearranged the glasses.

  ‘You try,’said she.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Froissart. ‘I outgrew kindergarten years ago.’

  ‘Indulge me,’ said Justina, a smile upon her lips. ‘Indulge me. You might be surprised.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Froissart irritably, reaching for the nearest glass.

  Justina slapped down his hand.

  ‘First, the rules,’ said she. ‘Do it as I did it. Two glasses at a time. You must flip-flop both. After three such manipulations, you must have two glasses inverted, one upright. Two down, one up.’

  ‘Child’s play,’ said Froissart scornfully.

  In his youth, Jean Froissart had sat for the competitive examinations which controlled entry to the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association. He had failed to win a place in that institution, but nevertheless his marks had been high. His marks had proved him, beyond a doubt, to be a Certified Genius.

  So it should be—

  —easy?

  There was something wrong here.

  Experimentally, Froissart tumbled two glasses. Then another two. Then—

  He couldn’t see how to get all three upright.

  ‘I made a mistake,’ he said.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Justina. ‘We’ll try again.’

  And she put them back to the starting position. Froissart tried again.

  Failed.

  ‘The third time,’ said Justina. ‘The final time. Try. But think before you try.’

  Froissart stared at the glasses.

  ‘Two at a time,’ he said. ‘Down to be up and up to be down. Three times.’