The Wazir and the Witch

by Hugh Cook

  And his guards fled.

  Juliet Idaho, released from restraint by the fast-fleeing guards, strode forward and kicked Master Ek in the head, knocking him unconscious. And the Empress Justina turned to Codlugarthia and said:

  ‘Greetings, my good man. Let me introduce myself. I am a child of Wen Endex, Justina Thrug by name, daughter of the great Lonstantine. How was it you named yourself?’

  ‘I named myself as Codlugarthia,’ said the Ashdan hero who had rescued her. ‘But you know me far better by another name. For I am the Crab, long a hermit upon the island of Jod, but now set free in a form far better for the active exercise of power.’

  ‘Then,’ said Justina, giving a slight bow, ‘it will be my pleasure to serve you. In bed or out of it.’

  Justina had no idea how many centuries the Crab had lived as a Crab upon the island of Jod, but she was fairly sure it had not enjoyed carnal delights with any human female in all that time. So surely - or so she hoped - it would be ready for a volcanic initiation into the arts of the pleasures of the flesh.

  ‘I will bear your offer of service in mind,’ said Codlugarthia gravely. ‘But now we must be gone from here, for a mission awaits us.’

  ‘What mission?’ said Justina, somewhat puzzled at this.

  ‘Chegory, that’s what mission!’ said Olivia. ‘Rescuing Chegory, that’s what we have to do!’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Justina. ‘How remiss of me. Very well! Let us to the rescue go! Juliet - are you coming?’

  ‘You couldn’t keep me away,’ said Idaho.

  And, heavily armed with discarded weapons - one scimitar, two knives and a handful of caltrops - the Yudonic Knight joined Justina, Codlugarthia and Olivia as they set forth from the Temple of Torture. They left Manthandros Trasilika behind to cut loose Jean Froissart - and what fate thereafter befell Froissart and Trasilika is not for this history to tell.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  It was the Empress Justina who led the way through the depths Downstairs as the rescue party hastened to the aid of Chegory Guy and Ivan Pokrov, the prisoners of the dreaded therapist. Olivia Qasaba followed at Justina’s heels. Then came Codlugarthia, with the Yudonic Knight Juliet Idaho bringing up the rear.

  On they went, and down.

  Justina remembered the way well, for she had sweated it out a tenth of a footstep at a time as she laboured with the organic rectifier. Without such a burden to shift, the journey was miraculously short - two or three leagues at most, which is no distance at all for a fit healthy person -and the expedition was soon approaching the lair of the therapist.

  It was then that they were surprised by a dorgi.

  Down a corridor it came, crunching toward them in fury, meaning to crush them to death, to munchle-crunchle their bones, to trample them thoroughly until nothing was left of them but a bloody grit.

  Codlugarthia saw the metal monster coming toward him. Calmly, he raised his finger.

  He exerted a fraction of his power.

  There was a scream from the dorgi. The thing slewed from side to side, crashed into a wall, came to a dead halt, then backed off a bit. It was defiant, but it was still frightened. It did not quite know what had been done to it, but it had unpleasant memories of being attacked by a granch-grusher, which had produced very similar sensations.

  ‘Leave us,’ said Codlugarthia in Janjuladoola.

  ‘No,’ said the dorgi.

  ‘Leave,’ said Codlugarthia. Then: ‘I do not wish to have to repeat myself. Nor do I wish to have to raise my voice.’

  In answer, the dorgi trained the snouts of its zulzer upon the heroic Ashdan. Then it fired. Belatedly, the dorgi remembered: it was out of ammunition. It did not hesitate: it charged.

  Codlugarthia’s fingers flickered.

  The floor of the corridor ruptured.

  A torn and jagged split gashed the floor of the corridor. Limitless depths yawned below. And the dorgi, assaulting forward at a furious pace, had no way to save itself. It tumbled into the pit and it fell, crashing through unseen metallic obstacles far below. There was a siren-pitched scream from deep, deep below. A sullen explosion. A rumbling thunder-roar.

  And then . . .

  Nothing.

  ‘Let us,’ said Codlugarthia, ‘be going.’

  They had to make a detour to get past the ruined section of corridor. Even so, they soon came upon the therapist. The first thing they saw was Chegory Guy and Ivan Pokrov. Both were hanging from their heels some distance above the ground, but appeared to be alive and physically intact.

  ‘Greetings,’ said the therapist in fluent Janjuladoola.

  ‘And to you, greetings,’ said Codlugarthia.

  ‘Have you brought the Ashdan to me as a plaything?’ said the therapist.

  ‘I am not your plaything,’ said Codlugarthia, gazing upon the monstrous device. ‘You are mine. Unleash your prisoners.’

  The therapist laughed at this stern command, and reached for Codlugarthia with half a dozen tentacles. Codlugarthia gestured curtly. The tentacles snapped and crackled, and recoiled as if from fire. The therapist screamed with rage.

  ‘Now,’ said Codlugarthia. ‘Release your prisoners. Or I will have to do you some serious harm.’

  The therapist knew when it was beaten. It promptly lowered Chegory and Pokrov to the ground. And released them. Both tried to get up - and immediately fainted. Olivia rushed forward, and, in moments, was cradling her dearest Chegory in her arms and trying to revive him with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. This strategy soon brought him round, and shortly he was smiling weakly in her embrace.

  ‘Very well,’ said Justina crisply. ‘Now kill this thing.’ ‘Why?’ said Codlugarthia.

  ‘The thing is a menace,’ said Justina. ‘It lives to kill and torture.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Codlugarthia, ‘I will destroy it.’

  ‘But you mustn’t!’ shrieked the therapist. ‘You mustn’t destroy me!’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Codlugarthia coolly.

  ‘Because, if you kill me you’ll - you’ll never know. The secrets! The secrets! I have the secrets!’

  Ivan Pokrov, though he had not had the benefits of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, managed to raise his head and say:

  ‘Kill it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Juliet Idaho, who had long been of the opinion that far too few people were getting killed these days. ‘Kill it. It’s high time we saw something killed.’

  ‘No!’ screeched the therapist. ‘You mustn’t! Because I can tell you, I can tell you all about it, worlds upon worlds, that’s the secret. Gates to another cosmos. Not one, a series. From universe to universe. The chasm gates. The secrets, I have them, I know, I know. How to get there, how to go, how to travel. Worlds upon worlds. All yours.’

  ‘It’s lying,’ said Pokrov.

  Codlugarthia hesitated.

  ‘Listen,’ said the therapist. ‘You’re a Power. I know that. I’ve never felt your match, and I’ve felt much in my time. I guess you immortal. If you’re not, we can soon fix that. Given immortality combined with power . . .’

  The therapist paused to see how the Ashdan warrior was taking this.

  ‘Speak on,’ said Codlugarthia.

  ‘Kill the thing,’ said Justina impatiently.

  ‘When I have sufficient data,’ said Codlugarthia. ‘Stranger,’ said Ivan Pokrov, ‘you must kill this thing. You must! You don’t know what it is. What it can do.’ ‘Ah,’ said Codlugarthia, ‘but I will learn. Speak, thing. Have you a name?’

  ‘I have,’ said the therapist with dignity. ‘Schoptomov, that’s my name. But that is the least important thing I have to tell you. I can tell you the secret of the chasm gates. How to build them, how to use them. That way, you can get from one cosmos to another. Otherwise, you’re stuck here. Stuck in this one grubby universe, for ever.’

  ‘What possible advantage could there be,’ said Codlugarthia, ‘in going from one universe to another?’

  ‘The Nexus, that’s what,’ said the
therapist, gabbling its words as panic began to get the better of composure. Then it steadied itself and said: ‘The Nexus. A coalition of empires. People by the million billion. Things you’ve never dreamed of. Suns, cities, seas of green and crimson, women smoother than silk, wines brighter than silver. Music to set dead bones to weeping, to set the very rocks to dancing.’

  ‘It’s bluffing,’ said Pokrov. ‘It doesn’t know how to rebuild the chasm gates.’

  ‘All right,’ said the therapist. ‘So I don’t know. But you know!’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Pokrov. ‘It would take me a million years.’

  ‘You admit it!’

  ‘A million years, that’s what I said.’

  ‘A million years,’ said Codlugarthia slowly. ‘Well. I have a million years.’

  ‘But you can’t be serious!’ said Pokrov. ‘You may have a million years, but I don’t.’

  ‘You are an immortal, are you not?’ sid Codlugarthia. ‘Who told you that?’ said Pokrov accusingly.

  ‘Friend, I know you better than you think,’ said Codlugarthia. ‘Long have I sat on Jod, for I am the one you have known till now as the Hermit Crab. I have seen you passing yourself off as a mortal man to one generation after another. I know your potential.’

  ‘I see,’ said Pokrov. The designer of the Analytical Engine paused, then said: ‘But whether I’m immortal or not, I’m not staying here to help you build chasm gates, or anything else for that matter.’

  ‘I don’t think you have any choice in the matter,’ said Codlugarthia.

  ‘We’d starve!’ said Pokrov. ‘Or thirst to death. Unless your powers extend to the creation of three-course meals thrice a day.’

  ‘That,’ admitted Codlugarthia, ‘might be a little difficult. Not impossible, but . . .’

  ‘Nutrition is no problem,’ said the therapist. ‘I can make all you need on the spot. Why, sometimes I’ve kept prisoners alive for decades.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Chegory, sitting up. ‘The therapist thing’s been telling us about some of those therapists. It’s evil! You can’t trust it! It’ll get you, that’s what, when you sleep, it’ll take you and kill you, it’ll make you a prisoner and torture you for ever.’

  Codlugarthia paused in thought.

  Then spread his arms.

  Then Spoke.

  The therapist screamed in agony.

  Doors and panels ruptured.

  Arms flailed and snapped.

  Sparks crackled.

  White fire ran along pipes and tubes.

  Deep in the workings of the hideous device, something broke. And out from a secret storeroom there slithered a great gushing outpouring of bloody eyes, ears, noses, tongues and testicles - the souvenirs of centuries of calculated torture and bloody murder. Olivia screamed. And Codlugarthia again Spoke. And the on-rushing onslaught blistered into so much fuming smoke.

  Then there was silence, but for the hiss of escaping steam, the quick crackle of a bright fire consuming a wildly jumbled heap of green wire which had been cascaded out from the guts of the therapist, and the moans of the therapist itself.

  ‘I think,’ said Codlugarthia, ‘that our friend here will not be torturing or imprisoning anyone for quite some centuries to come.’

  ‘I’m blind,’ sobbed the therapist. ‘I’m blind!’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Codlugarthia. ‘We can repair the damage, given time. Well. That is all for the moment. Pokrov, you must stay. It seems I have need of you. As for the others ... for you, my friends, it is time to go.’ ‘You don’t want to stay here,’ said Justina earnestly. ‘You can’t be serious! A million years? Here?’

  ‘What I need is here,’ said Codlugarthia. ‘Knowledge. Knowledge to amplify power. This is the source. There is no other.’

  In vain did Chegory and Olivia plead with Codlugarthia. In vain did the Empress Justina offer him control of the island of Untunchilamon, of the city of Injiltaprajura and all its treasures. In vain did Juliet Idaho threaten him with the combined wrath of the Yudonic Knights of Galsh Ebrek. Codlugarthia was given to thinking in terms of years by the thousands and millions. While incarnated as the Crab, Codlugarthia had grown accustomed to taking the long view. And, in the long term, the mastery of the secrets of many a cosmos was far more tempting than the wearisome task of sorting out the squabbles of Injiltaprajura.

  ‘But you could do it,’ persisted Justina. ‘You could really do it. Peace and good will and all that. You could make Injiltaprajura a very paradise.’

  ‘Shabble has told me all about making paradises for human beings,’ said Codlugarthia. ‘It’s no good. The human beings start hitting each other on the second day and killing each other on the third.’

  ‘You exaggerate,’ said Justina.

  ‘Read your history books,’ retorted Codlugarthia. And, after just a little more debate, the humanized Crab sternly ordered all unwanted humans from its presence. And they then had no option but to say goodbyes to Ivan Pokrov and then to depart from that place and face whatever doom awaited them in the world above.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  As Justina led her small party through the mazeways Downstairs, she did her best to conceal her dismay, but in truth she was shocked. Ever since the present crisis began, she had always thought that she could triumph over all her enemies if only the Crab could be liberated from the form which had so long oppressed it.

  Now the Crab had been so liberated, and walked the world in human form. And the faithless thing had allowed itself to be tempted from its duty by a slippery-tongued therapist! Its duty, obviously, was to serve Justina Thrug faithfully forever after, in gratitude for the way in which it had been liberated thanks to the efforts of Justina’s minion, the daring Olivia.

  But the Crab had proved a thankless traitor, and so . . .

  ‘Stroth!’ said Justina, swearing softly to herself.

  What would she find when she got up above? What was Trasilika doing right now? Had he killed Ek? Or did Ek still live? And Varazchavardan? And Jan Rat?

  Justina was more than a little humiliated to realize that the rule of Injiltaprajura was of so little concern to the humanized Crab that it preferred to gossip away the centuries in the company of a monstrous therapist. Furthermore, such was Justina’s shock at her unexpected betrayal by the Crab that she found herself quite unable to formulate any coherent plan of action. No help in this respect came from her companions.

  Chegory Guy seemed none the worse for wear after his ordeal - he was, after all, an Ebrell Islander, and such creatures are far less sensitive to rough handling than the ordinary run of humanity - but both Chegory and Olivia were going to be of very little use as far as any sensible planning went. They were too busy canoodling, something they managed even while on the move. As for Juliet Idaho, he just wanted to kill something; and Justina did not believe that any plan involving murder was likely to secure as much as their bare survival, far less their health and happiness.

  The journey which had seemed so short when Justina had been leading her forces to certain victory now seemed long, tedious and wearisome as she led the march toward the uncertain future. Through dark and light they went, sometimes pursued by the squillering of vampire rats - and at last emerged into the light of day.

  For safety’s sake, Justina chose to exit from the mazeways by means of the tomb-door on the desert side of Pokra Ridge. Here observing eyes were fewest. Once out in the saunabath heat of Injiltaprajura, she hesitated, unsure whether to retreat to Moremo Maximum Security Prison - the sole stronghold which any people loyal to her might have managed to seize and fortify against her enemies - or whether to proceed to the palace.

  ‘Where are we going?’ said Olivia.

  Thus forcing Justina to decide.

  ‘We will go to the palace,’ she said firmly.

  By fleeing to Moremo, she would only concede Injiltaprajura to any thug with the will to take it. By going to the palace, by occupying the traditional seat of power, she might yet secure the rule of th
e city. If her enemies were in disarray. If Manthandros Trasilika had not already set himself up once more as wazir. If Master Ek was dead, or at least too sick to speak a word against her. Given a little time - a few days, that was all she asked for - she could try other strategies. Such as producing her own false wazir.

  A new scheme occurred to her: a variation on those of the past. She could produce a man, any man, any stranger to the city - one of Jal Japone’s men would do -and claim that man to be the Crab incarnated in human form.

  ‘I can do it,’ muttered Justina, as she strode toward the palace.

  ‘Do what?’ said Juliet Idaho.

  ‘Regain my throne,’ said Justina. ‘And my power.’

  Yes.

  If the events of the past few days had proved anything, they had proved that her enemies were incapable of coordinated, coherent action. They had hesitated and prevaricated when they should have struck ruthlessly and decisively. They had given themselves to doubt when they should have given themselves to action. They had been deceived repeatedly by lies, bluffs, carefully planned leaks of false information, and deceits of all kinds. They had proved themselves a pack of second-rate fools, cowards and weaklings.

  Justina Thrug threw open the unguarded sally port which gave access to the pink palace from the north. She stepped inside, into the dusty silence of her palace.

  ‘Anyone home?’ she bellowed.

  Then listened for a challenge, for clattering feet.

  Nobody answered.

  Nobody came.

  Chegory Guy and Olivia Qasaba ventured within. Juliet Idaho peered suspiciously at the landscape without -then joined them.

  ‘We have the palace,’ said Justina. ‘That’s the first thing. Come. My quarters first.’

  She went to her quarters, hoping to find a servant or messenger, or at least a message. But there was nothing and nobody, but for the dragon Injiltaprajura, first (and perhaps only) child of the brave-hearted dragon Untunchilamon. Justina peered closely at Injiltaprajura’s saucer.