by Hugh Cook
But of these we can say nothing further, for fooskin is expensive, life is short and the reader’s patience limited; all of which conspires against history. Their existence is noted merely to point out that Jon Qasaba’s suffering was by no means unique.
Certainly Jon Qasaba’s life was a bath of rosewater compared to the terrors being endured by Chegory Guy and Ivan Pokrov, hapless prisoners of the therapist.
As yet, not a hair of their heads had been touched. But the therapist (which had a very fertile imagination) had indulged in all manner of threats. And it was getting restless. Chegory and Pokrov saw its restlessness and rightly feared that the therapist might well do something unfortunate unless it was swiftly granted satisfaction.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The morning after the banquet, a great inertia hung over Untunchilamon. Grey clouds had spread across the constellations by night, but the sunless day was nevertheless as hot as ever. In the smothering heat of morning, it was hard for hangover heads to compel fatigued bones and bleary eyes to get about their business.
It had rained in the night, and the humidity was nothing short of oppressive. Even in the Long Dry, the heat and humidity of Injiltaprajura are hard to take; but when the rains come, and the air is damp, and it is impossible to get anything dry, and rot and fungus flourish everywhere, then one strenuously wishes oneself elsewhere. The weather worsened the temper of the citizenry, which temper was made no better by the unceasing activities of the drummers, whose percussion power ruled the streets from Lubos to Marthandorthan.
Manthandros Trasilika woke feeling dreadful. He felt (not to put too strong a point upon it) as if he had been suspercollated from a gibbet ever since sunset. The cause of his physical unease was a headache. Yes, Manthandros Trasilika had a headache, as an ogre has bad breath or a vampire a taste for blood. It was no ordinary headache, this; rather, it was an all-enveloping disaster, a world-obliterating agony. It felt as if, surely, a master smith was forging a sledgehammer with Trasilika’s scalp as his anvil.
And the cause of the headache? One suspects it to be a side-effect of the prescription medicine in which Trasilika had so vigorously indulged himself while at banquet; that medicine consisting of some extremely expensive imported cherry brandy, a potent toddy derived from a part of the coconut palm which shall remain nameless, some vodka, and a quantity of jellyfish wine (which is to ordinary wine as a spear is to a nail, a lion to a cat, a land dragon to a dragon imperial, or a mountain to an anthill).
Let it be noted that Manthandros Trasilika did not wake voluntarily, and was extremely displeased at having been woken at all. He was wazir of Untunchilamon. Surely nobody would dispute that now that the priest of Zoz the Ancestral who supported his claims to the wazirate had proved himself true in trial by ordeal. Yes, Trasilika was the rightful wazir, one of the lords of the Izdimir Empire - and, at the very least, he expected to be able to sleep in on the morning after a banquet. ‘Why have I been woken?’ said Trasilika.
‘Because,’ said the manservant who had roused him, ‘Justina Thrug demands that you wake. She has things to discuss with you.’
Trasilika groaned.
How much longer would he have to put up with this woman?
Why - no time at all.
She had served her purpose, and it was time for her head to be chopped off.
‘Call my guards,’ said Trasilika to his manservant. ‘Tell them to seize the Thrug and cut off her head. ’ ‘Master,’ said the servant differently, ‘I’m afraid you have no guards.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Trasilika. ‘I had plenty of guards last night.’
‘I’m afraid, master, that they’ve deserted in the night.’ ‘But that’s absurd! Why should they desert now?’
‘I believe, master, that agents acting on behalf of Master Ek have lured them away with promises of higher pay elsewhere.’
‘Are you trying to tell me,’ said Trasilika furiously, ‘that the High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral has bought the loyalty of my guards?’
The manservant quailed, but did not seek to alter the truth. Instead, he said:
‘My lord, that would appear to be the case.’
‘Then - then send to my ship,’ said Trasilika. ‘A dozen men, that’s all I need. A dozen men with swords and hatchets. We’ll hack up this Thrug then see what we can do about N’stala Ek.’
‘Master,’ said the manservant nervously, ‘you . . . you . . .’
‘I suppose,’ said Trasilika sarcastically, ‘that next you’re going to tell me I don’t have a ship any more.’ ‘Well . . .’
‘Are you seriously . . . ?’
‘Master, I -I—’
‘Has my ship been burnt? Or pirated? Or what? Has my scurvy crew deserted to Ek as well?’
‘Master, the ship sailed before dawn. I know not why, or not for certain - but rumour has it that the High Priest of Zoz ordered the bark to depart.’
Manthandros Trasilika, looking for all the world like the famous stunned mullet of the Fables of Skod, gaped at his manservant.
This was serious!
His guards bribed away by Master Ek, his ship sent away by night . . .
What was going on?
It took Manthandros Trasilika less than half a dozen heartbeats to work out the obvious. For some reason, Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek, High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral for the island of Untunchilamon, had turned against him. Unless he did something, and quickly, he would go the same way as the first Manthandros Trasilika. His head would be chopped off. And the fact that he did indeed have the favour of Aldarch the Third would be quite beside the point . . .
Yes, Trasilika would have to do something.
But what?
Run?
There was nowhere to run to.
‘My lord,’ said the manservant, ‘do you want me to send the Thrug away?’
‘No,’ said Trasilika, who was quite unable to think of any sensible course of action which might extricate himself from his present difficulties. ‘I will see her.’
On this day of disaster, Justina Thrug might be a potential ally. Maybe.
Shortly, Manthandros Trasilika joined Justina Thrug for a working breakfast. With Justina was the bullman Log Jaris. Both appeared to be unaware that anything was wrong; so, rather than admit his peril, Trasilika concealed his discomfort and attended to business.
‘The facts,’ said Justina, as she chewed her way through two pineapples, three flying fish and a chunk of cold cassava, ‘are very simple. The administration is technically bankrupt. We need money and we need it fast.’
‘We?’ said Trasilika.
‘You,’ said Justina. ‘If you are to rule effectively, you must have money, and soon. That’s why Log Jaris is here. Will you tell him - or will I?’
‘You tell him,’ said the bullman.
‘Very well,’ said Justina. ‘Our plan is very simple. You will sell prescriptions to all those who want them. Each prescription will be valid for ten days. These prescriptions can be filled at certain outlets of our choosing, the prices being those which we set. All you have to do is organize the prescriptions. Log Jaris will take care of the rest.’
At first, Trasilika did not understand. Then he said: ‘Prescriptions? Are you talking about prescriptions for alcohol?’
‘What else?’ said Justina.
‘But it’s illegal!’ protested Trasilika. ‘It’s - it’s—’
‘We know what the Izdimir Empire thinks of alcohol,’ said Justina soothingly. ‘But we are both children of Wen Endex, are we not? We were both of us weaned on beer, were we not? And if this were Galsh Ebrek, we could get a mug of beer or better at any tavern of our choosing, without any nonsense about prescriptions whatsoever.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘But what?’ said Justina.
‘But Aldarch the Third wouid kill me!’
‘He will kill you anyway if you let Injiltaprajura slip into anarchy,’ said Justina. ‘By selling legal prescriptions to the popul
ace, and by the judicious use of violence to enforce your monopoly, you could have total control of the speakeasy business within ten days. You can do it. You must.’
Then they began to argue out the merits of this proposal in detail.
Let those who have ambitions take note: power is hard work. Often it means dragging yourself out of bed with a hangover to attend to pettifogging bureaucratic detail. Of course, similar discomforts attend a great many other professions, shopkeeping and soldiering among them; but it must be noted that the exercise of power is not a job for the idle.
Of course, this point is never made in those blood-perfumed romances of kingship and empire with which the young entertain themselves. Study for example the fables written by the scandalously over-prolific and overpaid Chulman Puro. Do his heroes ever get dragged out of bed in the morning to discuss cash flow, wage bills, exchange rates and inflation? Does Vorn the Gladiator ever get set upon thus on the morning after a great victory?
No, of course not.
Instead, Vorn the Gladiator stays between the sheets, tupping with the great Queen Avalgapalantaskomilti-dini, or the Princess Nuboltipon, or Yun the Hot, or Osh the Nubile, or Pevalina of the Ivory Bosoms. Her dugs become priapic as his lips close with hers; her knees come up; her legs enfold him as they enter that position known as the Lubricated Clam Embracing The Flagstaff; then ‘their ship rocks upon the seas of the urging blood’, as the poet so nicely puts it; then Pevalina (or it may be Yun the Hot, or, equally, Osh the Nubile - for they are all but aspects of one Eternal Woman) gasps as she yields to the ecstasy which he has forced upon her; and Vorn gasps also; and his serpent spits pearls; ‘silk accepts cream’ (to quote the poet once more); and then (to quote directly from Chulman Puro) ‘she licks the sweat from his great slabs of muscle and begs him to grant her the rapture once again’.
Vorn is not easily commanded by a woman’s tongue, and therefore demands that she first ‘worship the source with the tongue’s poetry’; and this she does, then whimpers with unfeigned ecstasy as he obliges her flesh once more; and so pass the days (and the nights, and, if Chulman Puro were to be believed, the very years themselves) in the halls of victory.
Now all this is very misleading.
Please note that the conquest of kingdoms and empires, while well within the power of any talented person (and here those without talent are advised to busy themselves with the construction of a new religion, for there are any number of undemanding gods who yet await their priests and congregations) is not a path to an idle life of luxurious self-indulgence. Instead, the acquisition of power means the intensification of life’s problems rather than the reverse.
For, if you once win great power, then everyone in the world will want to kill you; with the exception of those souls less savage who merely wish to loot your treasury or suborn some small part of your influence for the service of their own personal ends.
In conclusion, if you do really want to lie in bed all day with women ‘worshipping the source with the tongue’s poetry’ then trust not to the recipe proposed by Chulman Puro - but, instead, take yourself off to some place where the rate of exchange is good and the standard of living low, allowing you to buy whatever you want at prices close to laughable. The probable outcome is that within a month you will be bored beyond endurance with the contortions of the flesh, and will come home none the worse for the experience (but for the venereal diseases you have acquired in the process of making this experiment - but then, contrary to what certain narrowminded moralists would have you believe, we all have to die of something).
Unfortunately for Manthandros Trasilika, he was not living in the land of fable and romance, and was therefore constrained to sit at table with Justina Thrug and the bullman Log Jaris and argue the pros and cons of legalizing the sale of liquor by means of ten-day prescriptions.
At first, Trasilika himself refused to eat anything. But then he got down a little papaya - a food which is fairly close to being water, and hence palatable even to a hungover head - and then consented to allow some tolfrigdalakaptiko to be served to him.
‘A mistake,’ said Trasilika, when the tolfrigdalakaptiko was set before him. ‘It’s too early in the morning for this.’
‘Never mind,’ said Log Jaris. ‘We’ll eat it for you. As my father always said, a meal wasted is a meal wasted, and a meal eaten is a meal wasted not.’
‘Your father sounds like an uncommonly sensible man,’ said Trasilika, watching Log Jaris attack the tolfrigdalakaptiko. ‘For I can find no flaws whatsoever with his wisdom. Perhaps I . . . yes, a bit of this, perhaps I could manage just a bit . . .’ So saying, Trasilika dissected a lozenge of dried jellyfish with his knife, popped it into his mouth, chewed, tasted, swallowed, then said: ‘This takes me back.’
‘Where to?’ said Justina.
‘Bolfrigalaskaptiko,’ said Trasilika. ‘A very interesting place. They there have an institution which Injiltaprajura seems to be lacking, that is, the professional childbeater.’
‘My father outlawed that trade,’ said Justina.
‘A mistake,’ said Trasilika.
‘You are not seeking to revive the trade, are you?’ said Justina sharply.
Trasilika looked at her, wondering how best to answer. Then a frantic Jean Froissart intruded upon their conference, and no answer was required.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
For Justina Thrug, that morning breakfast was a delicate affair. Jean Froissart had proved himself a true priest of Zoz the Ancestral, therefore Manthandros Trasilika would surely have no trouble in getting himself accepted by one and all as the true wazir, the legitimate wazir appointed by Aldarch the Third to rule over Untunchilamon in the name of the Izdimir Empire.
So . . .
Really, as far as Justina could see, Trasilika no longer had any pressing need for her services. Such was Trasilika’s confidence that he appeared to have sent away all his guards - Justina’s spies told her those guards were now concentrated in the Temple of Torture. And he had also sent away his ship. All of which suggested he felt very, very secure already. So what was to stop him doing away with her? Nothing. Unless she made herself very, very valuable to him in a great big hurry. Given Trasilika’s manifest confidence in his grasp on power, that might prove difficult - but she had to try.
That was why Justina was there so early in the morning, seeking to entangle Trasilika in drug-dealing schemes which would alienate him from Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek and make him dependent on the services of her friend and ally Log Jaris. All she wanted was Trasilika’s protection, just for a few more days. In that time, she would - she must, otherwise she would surely die - scheme up some way to extricate the organic rectifier from Master Ek’s clutches.
Once Justina had the organic rectifier, she could take it to the Crab and transform that entity into human form. (Always assuming that she could deduce the secret of operating the rectifier, or that the Crab could work it out for itself.)
Once the Crab was made human then it would surely, out of gratitude, solve the rest of her problems.
But staying alive until she could think of some way to win the organic rectifier - why, that might prove very, very difficult indeed. However, the business breakfast seemed to go well enough, for Manthandros Trasilika attended to her schemes with every appearance of interest, even though he was obviously fatigued and hung over.
Then a frantic Jean Froissart intruded upon their conference in the greatest of panics imaginable.
‘They mean to kill me!’ babbled Froissart.
‘Get a grip on yourself,’ said Trasilika. ‘Sit down. Tell me all about it.’
Froissart then spilt out the most extraordinary tale. Master Ek, High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral, had named him as a human sacrifice for the Festival of Light!
‘You must stop him!’ said Froissart. ‘Use your powers as wazir to over-rule the High Priest or else!’
‘Or else what?’
‘Or else I’ll reveal you for what you are. A
false wazir!’
‘But I’m not a false wazir,’ protested Trasilika. ‘I’m the real thing, appointed by Al’three himself.’
‘That makes no difference,’ said Froissart. ‘Only one person in five truly believes you. The rest will happily murder you if given the slightest excuse.’
Not for the first time, Manthandros Trasilika wished he was still back in Bolfrigalaskaptiko, that city of mud and mosquitoes which lies on the far-away Crocodile River, also known as the River Ka. Now, his sojourn in that place of marsh and fever seemed positively idyllic. However, he could not go back. He had not sailed from Manamalargo and the shores of Yestron on a whim. No: he had come to Untunchilamon on the direct orders of Aldarch the Third.
And APthree would be very, very unhappy with Trasilika if he failed to secure the rule of Untunchilamon for the Mutilator.
So Trasilika needs do whatever he must to maintain himself in authority.
Even if that meant going up against a High Priest of the religion so dear to the Mutilator’s heart.
‘I - I will order Master Ek that you are not to be sacrificed,’ said Trasilika.
‘Thank you,’ said Jean Froissart.
‘You thank him prematurely,’ said Justina Thrug.
‘What?’ said Trasilika. ‘Do you think Master Ek will dare to disobey me?’
‘He may,’ said Justina.
‘What makes you say that?’ said Trasilika.
The wazir and the witch stared at each other. Justina was thinking, thinking, thinking with greater concentration than ever before in her life. Master Ek had chosen Jean Froissart as a human sacrifice. So Ek wanted Froissart dead. So Ek did not believe that Froissart had passed his trial by ordeal thanks to divine intervention. So Ek thought Froissart to be a false priest, and Trasilika to be a false wazir. (Were they false? At this moment, for the life of her Justina could not tell.)
