by Hugh Cook
‘Then - the Qasaba girl!’ said Nau Das, who was always quick off the mark. ‘Olivia Qasaba. She could identify him.’
‘Yes,’ said Ek, glancing briefly at Olivia, who was even then sharing a joke with the Empress Justina. ‘But will she? We may have to overcome this false wazir by brute force.’
‘What?’ said Ch’ha Saat. ‘Just the three of us?’
‘Others here are friends of Aldarch the Third,’ said Master Ek. ‘If offered a pardon for past sins, Aquitaine Varazchavardan may come to our aid. Anyway, it takes but a moment to kill a man. We have blades. We can do it. So wait. Wait for my signal.’
Then Ek brought this whispered conference to an end and the three sat back, contemplating the fighting talent arranged around the table. All Justina’s allies were here, some of them potentially very dangerous fighters: the bullman Log Jarvis, the Yudonic Knight Juliet Idaho, the Ashdan warrior Shanvil Angarus May, the corpse-master Uckermark and his loud-mouthed woman Yilda.
The odds were in Justina’s favour.
But . . .
They will not dare to kill me.
So thought Master Ek. Surely Justina would not be rash enough to murder the High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral. If she did, then all the Believers on Untunchilamon would rise against her at once, and tear her from limb to limb.
So . . .
Let her produce her false wazir. And I will kill the thing. Then see what she dares to do.
Thus thought Master Ek, then, yielding to appetite, began to feed from the fresh dishes which were being placed on the table. There were juicy bean shoots and quantities of the rare green mushrooms which only grew in a particular place Downstairs. There was crab meat served with the finest polished white rice. And dogmeat, monkey meat, and the flesh of half a hundred cats as well.
Master Ek studied Jean Froissart anew as the time for the trial by ordeal drew near. Soon Froissart would have to pick up a ball of red-hot iron without injury to himself, thus proving himself a true priest of Zoz. Thanks to the intelligence he had received, Ek knew Froissart must fail.
But did Froissart know it?
Watching him, Ek was not sure.
At last, the moment arrived. The Empress Justina hammered on the table with a soup spoon, conjuring silence in the banqueting hall.
‘We announce,’ said she, ‘the trial by ordeal of Jean Froissart, who will handle red-hot iron to prove himself a true priest of Zoz.’
Then a cowled and black-masked figure entered the Grand Hall. This was the executioner who would put Froissart through his ordeal. Nobody knew who he was; this anonymity was not just traditional but was enshrined in the law, and was meant to protect the executioner from suffering vengeance at the hands of the friends, relatives and associates of those he ordealed, tortured or killed.
Two slaves followed the executioner into the Grand Hall. The slaves deposited a brazier mounted on an iron tripod. It was already alight. The slaves then departed, returning shortly afterwards with a similar tripod supporting a basket containing old iron. Atop the basket was a set of bellows. One of the slaves used this to excite the mass of burning charcoal in the brazier while the other fetched a bucket of cold water. Then the black-masked executioner muttered a command and both slaves left.
Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek evinced no outward interest in these proceedings, but lit another cigarette and sat back in his chair. In moments, Jean Froissart would be exposed as a fraud.
This was something to savour.
The Empress Justina then left her chair and walked to the side of the executioner, and there waited for Jean Froissart. He approached, and said, loudly:
‘My lady, I am here to undertake trial by ordeal.’
Justina smiled, then answered:
‘This trial has my favour.’
Then Froissart dropped his voice to a whisper and said:
‘Where is the salve? The magic salve?’
‘Oh, you don’t need that,’ said Justina pleasantly.
Froissart stared at her.
‘But - but you—’
‘I promised,’ said Justina, and smiled sweetly. ‘Well, I’m breaking my promise.’
‘You mustn’t!’ said Froissart savagely.
Surely this was a joke. But a joke in the worst possible taste. The Thrug would pay for this!
But Juliet Idaho was already at Froissart’s elbow.
‘Don’t you tell the Empress what she can or can’t do,’ said Idaho. ‘Speak your piece. Thank the Empress for her favour. Come on! Or I’ll rip you to pieces on the spot.’
He meant what he said.
Too late, Froissart realized Justina was serious. He had been tricked, fooled, double-crossed and swindled. Set up as a sacrifice. If he protested, Idaho would kill him on the spot. With the approval of law and custom, for a priest who flinched from an ordeal was doomed to instant destruction.
But if I die, the Thrug dies.
Surely. For if Jean Froissart was killed, then Manthandros Trasilika would be thought a false wazir. Whereupon Trasilika would be killed too, and Trasilika’s pardon of Justina would be revoked, and Justina herself would be tried then executed.
So thought Froissart.
Unless.
Ah yes.
Unless the Thrug had another wazir on hand.
Froissart had heard the rumours about escaped lunatics from the Dromdanjerie. A great many people believed (or at least claimed to believe) that the Thrug was grooming a cunning psychopath to rule as wazir on Untunchilamon.
Whatever the truth of the matter:
I have no choice.
So:
‘My lady,’ said Froissart, ‘I thank you for granting this trial your favour.’
‘That is well spoken,’ said Justina. Then she said: ‘Would you please step this way?’
Why? Where were they going? This was not part of the prescribed ritual of the trial by ordeal!
Despite his confusion, Froissart followed the Empress. Who led him to Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek. Froissart wanted to run. But Juliet Idaho was just a footfall to the rear, and Froissart knew instant death would befall him if he tried to flee.
‘Master Ek,’ said Justina, ‘I would like you to do me the favour of examining this gentleman’s hands.’
‘With pleasure,’ said Ek, pleased to have this opportunity to make sure that no trickery was taking place. ‘Froissart! Show me your claws!’
Here a grave insult, for the Janjuladoola word which Master Ek used to say ‘claws’ was ‘emokskok’, a term used only of certain taloned beasts which are held to be ritually unclean. To use this word of a human is to suggest that the person in question is no better than a foul and monstrous brute beast.
But Froissart did not protest.
Froissart was having trouble merely staying on his feet as Master Ek examined his hands. Sweat was bubbling from Froissart’s forehead, but his hands were dry.
‘It appears,’ said Master Ek, ‘that no magical or mundane agency has interfered with this man’s hands.’
‘Thank you,’ said Justina. Then, to Froissart: ‘Well, Frozzy darling. Let us go. The executioner is waiting.’
Then Juliet Idaho gave Froissart a little shove, and the hapless priest stumbled toward his doom.
Froissart was terrified.
In moments, he would be dead.
When he had to hold the red-hot iron, he would scream. And his flesh would crisp. And a hideous stench of burning would fill the air. And he would drop the iron. And he would clutch his ruined hand. And all would know him unequal to the ordeal. And all would think him a false priest, for all that he was true. And his death would befall him.
Froissart was almost paralysed by terror. He looked like a zombie as he ambulated toward the brazier.
Ek watched.
Ek drew upon his cigarette. Drew heavily.
The High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral was a connoisseur of terror. If he was any judge - and he believed himself to be the best - then the fear of
death was upon the young Jean Froissart.
Ek hissed, softly.
‘Master?’ said one of his acoloytes.
‘He knows he will fail,’ said Ek. ‘He was confident this morning, but he’s not now. Something’s gone wrong, at least for him. He’s going to die here, and he knows it. Which means the Thrug has got her false wazir close at hand. Be ready for anything. Swords, mayhap. Or worse.’
‘Worse?’ ‘Burning zen perhaps. Who knows? Just be ready!’
Thus murmured Ek.
The High Priest was sitting forward now, watching Froissart intently. Froissart stopped a couple of paces away from the brazipr and its attendant. Froissart’s face was that of a corpse.
‘I am the master of the ordeal,’ said the cowled figure who commanded the brazier.
Who spoke?
Master Ek listened intently, but could not divine the identity of that shadow-faced entity. The voice was hoarse and half-throttled. It was the voice of a thing from the grave.
‘Master,’ said Froissart. ‘I am—’
Then his voice failed entirely.
‘We know who you are,’ said the masked executioner. ‘You are Jean Froissart, one who comes to prove himself a priest of Zoz.’
Froissart found enough voice to say:
‘Yes.’
Everyone in the banqueting hall heard that single word clearly, for all eating had ceased. Only the waiters still went about their business, adroitly clearing away dirty plates and discarded stabs. But such was their professionalism that they were as inconspicuous as ghosts of the invisible type.
‘Choose,’ said the executioner. ‘Choose the iron for your ordeal.’
So saying, the cowled figure pointed at the basket of iron balls. Froissart reached out. Took one at random. It was cold and heavy. Bits of rust came off on his hands as he handed it to the executioner.
‘Pick up the bellows,’ said the executioner. ‘Stoke the brazier.’
Froissart did so.
It seemed the whole world was watching Jean Froissart as he worked the bellows. Would he faint? Would he collapse? Would he scream and run?
He did none of those things.
Instead, the rhythmical labour of working the bellows helped ease his terror. Good, hard, physical work. An ache in his forearms. Sweat rolling down his forehead, stinging as it burnt into his eyes, and for once he welcomed the sweat, the heat, the cloth wet against his back, he was alive, for the moment, for the moment at least, if he worked hard enough he could maybe extend the moment to for ever.
But—
‘Enough,’ said the executioner.
Froissart stepped back. Just a pace. And now all watched as the executioner held aloft the iron ball.
‘Who touches this, dies,’ said the executioner. ‘Unless he touches it by my consent. Nobody yet has my consent.’
Then the executioner lowered the iron ball on to the hot coals.
‘Please,’ said Froissart, his voice a muttering whisper. ‘Please,’ he said, staring at the iron. ‘A thousand dragons if you say I can have it now.’
‘They can hear you at the table, fool,’ said the executioner.
Froissart looked up. Turned on the banqueters. Could they hear him? Really? Their faces showed nothing but anticipatory interest.
‘Please,’ said Froissart.
He was begging.
‘I cannot be bribed,’ said the executioner. ‘You must go through with your ordeal in accordance with the proper and lawful rituals.’
As yet, the iron ball was still a sullen black. But, as Froissart watched, it slowly began to get hot.
‘Ah,’ said the executioner. ‘It is turning red with the heat. See?’
Froissart could not help but look. It was true. The dead iron was glowing red hot. Sullen waves of heat radiated outwards. The air above the brazier was trembling. Seen through the buckling air, Master Ek’s face warped and distorted.
Without warning, black spots started swarming through the air like so many pestering insects. Froissart swayed on his feet.
‘Don’t fall,’ hissed the executioner. ‘Fall, and you’ll die on the spot.’
Froissart steadied himself. His vision cleared. His focus sharpened.
‘Look at it,’ said the executioner. ‘Look at the iron.’
Unwillingly, Froissart did so.
‘Now,’ said the executioner, ‘reach out your hand. Reach out your hand and pick it up. Do it!’
Froissart reached out with his right hand.
An anticipatory shock sent shivers prickling all along his arms. His vision sharpened. He saw the veins of fire in the charcoal pulsing softly, alive with a luminescent rhythm. He saw the red-hot iron ball glowering, waiting. He wanted to scream. A sob broke from his throat. His hand became a claw. His hand closed around the iron ball.
Which was cold.
As cold as ice.
Jean Froissart lifted the iron ball and held it aloft.
He knew the sensation of cold must be an illusion, something his nerves had done to save his mind from the agony of his burning flesh. He .knew his flesh was burning because he could smell it.
‘That is enough,’ said the executioner.
‘Enough?’
‘Drop the iron.’
Froissart dropped the iron ball. It fell heavily to the stone. The sound of iron hitting stone rang through the Grand Hall. Everyone in the place was utterly silent. Watching Froissart. For a few moments, the iron ball continued to glow red hot, but it rapidly cooled to black.
The executioner picked up the bucket of water which his slaves had earlier brought into the Grand Hall together with the brazier, the bellows and the heap of old iron.
‘I must cool the iron,’ said the executioner. ‘Stand back, for there will be steam when I pour the water over it.’
Jean Froissart did not see how a little steam could do him any harm. Nevertheless, he took a couple of steps backwards. The executioner began to pour water from the bucket. The water splashed around the iron ball and hissed into steam. The executioner continued to pour until no more steam rose from the iron ball. Water spread out across the floor. The executioner exhausted the contents of the bucket, nudged the iron ball cautiously with his foot, then picked it up and treasured it in his hands.
‘Show me your hands,’ said the executioner.
‘What?’ said Froissart.
‘You heard me. Show me your hands.’
Both Froissart’s hands were tightly clenched. He was trying to stave off the pain which must surely be waiting in his right hand, waiting for the moment to reveal itself.
‘Show me!’
Reluctantly, Froissart uncoiled both hands.
They were unmarked, the right no different to the left.
‘But,’said Froissart in a whisper,‘but . . .’
‘A miracle,’ said the executioner. ‘But then, you are a true priest of Zoz the Ancestral. It is an acknowledged truth that Zoz the Ancestral will work a miracle such as this when that is necessary to prove a true priest true.’
‘It is,’ said Froissart weakly.
Then the executioner said:
‘Go.’
‘Go where?’ said Froissart.
‘Where do you think!? Go to the table. Show them your hands!’
Obedient to this command, Jean Froissart walked toward the banqueting tables. He felt as if he were walking on air. He was delirious with disbelieving relief.
He approached Master Ek. He displayed his hands.
‘Here,’ said Ek roughly.
Moments later, Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek was gouging at Froissart’s hands, digging into them, knuckling them, rubbing them. But he could find no damage. The High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral was furious.
‘Bring me the ball,’ said Master Ek. ‘The iron ball. I want to see it. Now! Get it!’
The cowled and night-masked executioner was still holding the iron ball which had been used for Jean Froissart’s ordeal. Froissart walked toward him.
‘What do you want?’ said the executioner.
‘The iron ball,’ said Froissart.
‘Take it,’ said the executioner, handing the thing over. ‘Keep it. A souvenir.’
‘It’s Ek who wants it,’ said Froissart.
‘Then he’s welcome to it,’ said the masked executioner. ‘Go. Give it to him.’
As Froissart walked toward Master Ek, the executioner made his departure. His slaves came into the Grand Hall and began removing the equipment.
‘Here,’ said Ek, impatiently. ‘Give me the thing here.’
Froissart handed over the iron ball.
Ek took it into his hands and looked at it suspiciously. It was cold, cold as the belly of a dead lizard on a chilly morning. A flake of rust came away in Ek’s hands. A trace of sweat from Ek’s skin moistened the rust, which left a black stain when he brushed it away. Ek handed the ball to the most trusted of his acolytes, Aath Nau Das.
‘Take this thing,’ said Ek. ‘Take it, and test it to destruction.’
Then he turned to Froissart.
‘You have passed,’ said Ek. ‘You have passed the test. You have proved yourself a true priest of Zoz.’
‘Then,’ said Manthandros Trasilika loudly, ‘since Froissart’s a true priest, I am a true wazir.’
Ek looked at him coldly.
‘You are,’ said Ek. ‘All Untunchilamon will know as much by this time tomorrow. That I promise you. For now - let the banquet continue.’
Saying that was strictly the prerogative of the Empress Justina, but she let it pass. She felt quite weak with relief. So it had all gone off as planned. She had expected it to, of course. But there were so many things which could have gone wrong. So very many things.
What, for example, if Master Ek had demanded that the executioner be unmasked . . . ?
Elsewhere, in a secure room far removed from the Great Hall - Justina’s bedroom, as it happens - the executioner was unmasking. The cowled figure proved to be Odolo, Injiltaprajura’s master conjuror. Once unmasked, Odolo reached into his mouth, withdrew a bit of palate-contorting wood, and tossed the much-hated thing aside.
He worked his jaw this way and that, experimentally, then said, in accents far removed from those the chunk of wood had forced upon him:
