by Hugh Cook
‘Wine!’ she commanded. ‘Drink! You’re getting left behind by everyone else!’
Chegory drank. His glass was refilled. Then, at imperial command, he needs must drink again. Dishes came and went. He ate of them scarcely without tasting. The fevered hubbub roared incomprehensible in his ears like something out of nightmare. From time to time an over-englutted guest would raise a demanding hand. A waiter would rush forward with a portable vomitorium into which the guest would disgorge, the better to make room for the next course. Chegory was shocked the first time he saw this, and was shocked all the more when the Empress herself made use of the same expedient.
‘Ah!’ she said, patting her midriff. ‘That feels better!’
‘I’m sure it does,’ muttered Cheggy darling.
Then seized his glass and drained it manfully.
A refill of his prescription was arranged on the instant. If he did have anaemia then it should be well and truly cured (or at least treated!) by the time the banquet ended — unless he died of his medicine in the interim.
By the time the last course arrived young Chegory felt as if he was floating on the waves of noise which arose from the drunken nobility of Injiltaprajura. The last course was ice-cream, a concoction made of fine-sliced ice mixed with goat’s milk and shredded coconut then frozen. Chegory tried to spoon the ice-cream into his mouth, but his hand shook, and the incompliant substance globbed from the implement on to his lap.
‘Oh Cheggy darling!’ said Justina with great concern. ‘You have a palsy! Waiter! More wine for the guest of honour!’
At Justina’s command, Chegory’s glass was topped up, even though it was almost full to start with.
‘I think,’ said Chegory, in a very deliberate voice, ‘I’ve had enough.’
‘But,’ said Justina, ‘the palsy! Besides — is your anaemia cured?’ She pinched one of his fingernails till the flesh beneath the nail blanched white. ‘No! Look, you’re almost bloodless! You can’t stop taking your medicine till you’re cured, can you now?’
So Chegory drank yet more.
He was well and truly feeling the side effects of his medicine. His ice-cream stumbled from spoon to table, to lap, to floor, or sprawled down his chin to his silks of yellow and green. He had to escape before he overdosed entirely and passed out. But how? Drunken inspiration seized him. He clutched his chest.
‘Angina,’ he gasped.
The Empress Justina laughed uproariously, and whacked him on the back.
‘There now, my waggish little fellow!’ she said. ‘Does that feel better?’
‘I’m afraid,’ said Chegory, doing his best to imitate the wheeze of a dying man, ‘that it… it doesn’t.’
‘Oh my darling Cheggy!’ said Justina in alarm. ‘Are you really ill?’
‘Yes,’ said Chegory. ‘Yes, yes.’
‘Then your darling Juzzy will kiss it better,’ said Justina.
She proceded to do just that, till Chegory abandoned resistance and declared himself cured. Even then Justina gave him one last kiss, for luck. The guests paid no attention to any of this activity for these still capable of cognition were intent on a disturbance at the hall’s main entrance.
‘Armed men!’ said Chegory.
‘Yes,’ said Justina carelessly. ‘Doubtless coming to chop off your head. To make the soup, you know. Soup for tomorrow’s lunch.’
Chegory lurched from his chair. But Justina grabbed him and hauled him back.
‘Sit down, silly boy! It’s a joke. Look, they’re bringing me a prisoner. The bullman, is it? No, it’s-’
‘By the looks of it,’ said the corpse master Uckermark, ‘Log Jaris has some captives. You may find this very, very interesting.’
Soon three prisoners of Ashdan race (or, as they would have called themselves, of the Malud) had been forced into the open square made by the three banqueting tables. They were the pirates from Asral.
‘What have we here?’ said Justina.
The bullman Log Jaris, who had a leather pouch at his side, advanced, bowed very low, then straightened up and said:
‘My lady fair, may I present to you three pirates from Asral. The old one is Al-ran Lars, the young one is Arnaut and the one of weightlifting build is Tolon. By their own confession they are the thieves who took the wishstone from the treasure.’
‘Where did you find them?’ said Justina.
‘Downstairs, my lady,’ said Log Jaris.
‘What on earth were they doing down there?’ said Justina. ‘The wishstone was found missing yesterday morning. They’ve had five quarters or more to run elsewhere.’
‘They tried to run, my lady,’ said Log Jaris. ‘However, they were caught by the demon of Jod, the notorious Shabble, who herded them this way and that through the underworld until they were lost beyond their own recovery. They escaped from Shabble by subterfuge but were thereafter unable to find their way out. I caught them myself when I went hunting with some friends and a pack of dogs.’ ‘Excellent work!’ said Justina. ‘Have you the wishstone with you?’
‘My lady,’ said Log Jaris.
He reached into the leather pouch that hung by his side and produced the wishstone itself. The glittering bauble shone in the light of chandeliers as he handed it over to the Empress Justina. She accepted it eagerly.
‘Oh,’ she said, fondling the facets of the glittering triakisoctahedron, ‘it’s so nice to have it back. I was so upset when I heard it was gone. Thank you, Log Jaris. In time you will be suitably rewarded. In the meantime — you must join us at banquet. Waiters! Throw out some of those drunks! Make room for Log Jaris! A chair for our friend! I know — bring in my throne! Let the bullman have my throne as a token of my esteem for him.’
This was very tactful of the Empress. Far more tactful than simply saying that no ordinary chair could be sure of supporting the bullman’s bulk.
‘As for the pirate people,’ said Justina, ‘put them in the starvation cage for the time being. We’ll decide what to do with them later.’
So the Malud marauders were herded into the starvation cage just behind the Empress. They were locked in and the key to their cage was, as law and protocol required, presented to the Empress. Sweating waiters, their poise temporarily vanquished, hauled Justina’s ebony throne into the banquet hall, and Log Jaris was then seated on this.
‘What a delightful turn of events,’ said Justina, placing both the key and the much-fondled wishstone on the table in front of her.
How Chegory longed to get his hands on the wishstone! Just for a few moments! Even though the conjuror Odolo had told him this bauble granted no wishes, he yet yearned to put its powers to the test.
‘It doesn’t work, you know,’ said Justina, seeing his gaze and interpreting it accurately.
‘Are you sure?’ said Chegory.
‘Positive,’ said Justina. ‘I tried it just now — and not for the first time, either. I wished I was sixteen once more. I wished I could lose some weight — enough, say, to make myself half a dozen coconuts lighter. I wished for Varazchavardan to turn into a frog, and I wished Log Jaris to have human form once more. I know he’s not happy as he is.’
‘You know Log Jaris?’ said Chegory, truly amazed at this.
‘Oh, I know everyone, everyone,’ said Justina. ‘Why, we even know each other, don’t we? You and I. We’ll know each other better yet my dear before the night is out. You really want to make a wish, Cheggy darling? Then touch! Wish! Imagine! Dare!’
With trembling hands Chegory reached out and touched the wishstone. It was warm. It vibrated softly beneath his fingertips. Internal rainbows flared, dissolved, reformed and flared again. Chegory closed his eyes.
He wished.
He wished not to be red. He wished he could be Ashdan black so he could marry Olivia and escape with her to Ashmolea, there to perfect his mathematical studies at one of the great universities such as that at Fardrendoko.
[Fardrendoko: literally (in Slandolin) ‘Ford-of-(the)-ox Large city i
n Ashmolea. Famous as home of Ashmolean Museum, one of the great cultural institutions of which the people of Ashmolea South are so proud. Oris Baumgage, Fact Checker Minor.]
He wished then for his mother’s resurrection and for the undoing of all the death and suffering his people had suffered during the pogrom launched by Wazir Sin. For a reversal of rape, torture, mutilation and execution. For a reversal also of the long years of fear and exile during which he had nightly imagined that dawn would bring raiders in overwhelming strength to encompass his death.
But my mother especially.
Especially my mother.
Alive again…
‘Why, Cheggy!’ said Justina in concern. ‘You’re crying!’ ‘Just… I’m just drunk,’ said Chegory, taking his hand away from the wishstone.
Then he broke down entirely and wept without ceasing till the Empress Justina rose from the table and led him away, leaving the wishstone to look after itself. Out through a back door they went. Then, with armed guards trailing them at a discreet distance, they made their way by one shortcut and another to Justina’s quarters.
Chegory scarcely noticed where he was. Scarcely took in the padded luxury of furnishings and wall hangings, the gold and silk, the leather and silver, the glittering lamps and the huge mirrors of fabulous worth. Justina took an amphora and poured a bowlful of cold water. She bade Chegory wash his face. He did so, and his tears eased. ‘What is it?’ said Justina, her arm about him.
‘My… my mother.’
‘Is she poorly?’
‘She’s… she’s…’
No words then, only tears.
‘I see,’ said Justina, soothing him, soothing him, patting his back softly, gently. ‘Was it… was it in the days of Sin?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Justina. ‘I’m sorry. But it’s over now. You’re safe now.’
‘But,’ said Chegory, the word blurring through tears, ‘but it’s coming back, isn’t it? He’s winning, isn’t he? He’ll be here, won’t he? Then it’ll be all, it’ll be, it’ll-’
‘There there,’ said Justina, patting him on the back once more. ‘There there. That’s as may be but you’re safe for the moment, you’re perfectly safe.’
She needed no clarification of Chegory’s concerns. His fear was of Aldarch III, the Mutilator of Yestron, who threatened to be triumphant in Talonsklavara. Once the warlord had won the civil war in Yestron and had reunified the Izdimir Empire then he would surely turn his attention to Untunchilamon. Then the wrath of the Mutilator would fall on those who had overthrown Wazir Sin, and he would without doubt appoint a new wazir to complete the work which Sin had begun.
Justina sympathised entirely with Chegory’s fears since she shared them. Aldarch III would doubtless wish to encompass her own death and surely possessed the power to do so. She had nightmares about his advent, as did most of her subjects. So she gave Chegory all the time he needed to recover before she suggested they return to the banquet.
‘Just for a little while,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t, but etiquette demands it. But it won’t last for much longer. Will that upset you too much?’
‘I’m all right now,’ said Chegory. ‘But… no more to drink. I can’t take any more to drink.’
‘Of course not,’ said the Empress. ‘Apart from that… is there anything else?’
‘Anything else?’
‘Anything you… you can’t. Or won’t. Or don’t want to.’
Chegory knew what she was offering him. The chance to escape from all further demands if he wanted to. He did want to! But she was his Empress. It was her father who had overthrown Wazir Sin, thus putting an end to the pogrom. It was Justina who had granted all Ebrell Islanders their full rights as citizens under the rule of an equitable code of law equally enforced.
Hence Chegory was a patriot.
‘My lady,’ he said, mastering his tongue with a supreme effort which vanquished wine, sorrow and a natural tendency toward incoherence. ‘You are my Empress, and I your loyal subject. Your wish is my command.’
‘That’s darling of you Cheggy dear,’ said Justina. ‘That’s truly darling of you.’
Then she led him back to the banquet with the armed guards who had waited outside her door trailing along behind.
CHAPTER TWENTY
When Chegory Guy and the Empress Justina returned to the banqueting hall they found the festivities in full swing. The conjuror Odolo was performing. Even as they entered he was teasing a seemingly endless streamer of coloured paper from his closed fist. Uckermark had shifted from his appointed seat and was now deep in conversation with Log Jaris. A few more drunks had slid under the table. The captured pirates were sitting disconsolately in the starvation cage.
The key to the starvation cage was no longer on the table where Justina had left it. Her albinotic ape had laid claim to it and, having first torn the tablecloth asunder, was using it to graffitograph the tabletop. Oh well. No harm done. But ‘The wishstone!’ said Chegory. ‘It’s gone!’
‘No, no,’ said Justina. ‘There it is, with my dear friend Juliet. Juliet Idaho, you see? They’re passing it round the table, that’s all right. It can’t come to any harm here, not with armed guards on every door.’
They sat.
‘Waiter!’ said Justina.
‘Ma’am?’
‘Take away the young gentleman’s wine. In view of the side effects I’m prescribing him sherbet instead.’
‘Sherbet. Certainly, my lady.’
Chegory’s wine vanished, to be replaced by sherbet in what felt like merely a moment. But it must have been more, for Odolo was done with the streamer and instead was pouring walnuts from his wide-open hands. Transitory rainbows glittered along the edges of the walnuts as they fell.
‘Oh!’ said Justina, ‘oh, do you see what he’s doing? That’s very clever! I haven’t seen him do that before!’
Then something large dropped from Odolo’s hands. It was not a walnut. It was a scorpion. A bright yellow sun scorpion as long as a man’s forearm.
‘My!’ said Justina. ‘How did he keep that up his sleeve?’
The scorpion stood in defiance amidst the scattered walnuts. Claws raised. Tail arched. Its pose was static yet nevertheless managed to convey the creature’s frenzy of paranoid suspicion and homicidal anger.
Schtlop!
A large ewer manifested itself in Odolo’s hands.
Already a bright-burning fluid was pouring from the ewer. The conjuror jumped backwards — leaving the ewer poised in space. It calmly continued to outpour the flaming fluid. Walnuts burst asunder as the fluid swept over them.
The flood of death reached the sun scorpion. It writhed in brief-lived agony. Then:
Cher-lup!
The sun scorpion exploded.
Then the ewer, now empty, burst apart into a shower of butterflies which fluttered upwards. Briefly they rose then transmuted themselves into shards of rainbow — and then were gone.
‘Bravo!’ cried the Empress, clapping her hands.
As Chegory was joining in the applause he noticed more confusion at the main entrance to the Grand Hall. What was it? More prisoners for the Empress? No, it was a man. A wonderworker, if his silken robes were anything to go by. A most extraordinary figure he made, for his skin was of the most startling yellow colour.
‘Look!’ said Chegory, pointing. ‘A yellow man! Odolo must have made him! Just like the sun scorpion!’
‘Don’t be silly, Cheggy,’ said Justina, slapping down his pointing finger to the accompaniment of a delightful little laugh. ‘That’s Dolglin Chin Xter, my Inquisitor.’
‘But — but why is he yellow?’
‘Why do you think?’ said Justina. ‘He’s got hepatitis, of course.’
That was one of the reasons why Dolglin had been made head of Justina’s Inquisition into the drug traffic on Untunchilamon: his disease sharply reduced the temptation to which he was exposed. Hepatitis tends to put people off their drink; furthermore, if they persist in taking
alcohol then the effects of such indulgence tend to be dramatic and disastrous.
'Hepatitis?’ said Chegory.
He was so convinced that Xter was a conjuror’s creation that he found Justina’s explanation hard to credit.
‘Didn’t I just say so?’ said the Empress. ‘Yes, hepatitis. The worst case I’ve ever seen. It’s a wonder he’s still alive, yet alone on his feet.’
A wonder it was indeed; such a wonder that one is tempted to suspect that Xter was supporting his activities through exercise of magic.
‘Hepatitis,’ said Chegory yet again, still unsure whether to believe Justina.
‘Dear Cheggy!’ said Justina. ‘Are you after employment as my parrot?’
‘No, no,’ said Chegory, glancing at the conjuror Odolo. ‘It’s just that — oh, look at Odolo!’
The conjuror had clapped his hands to his mouth, as if horror-struck by something he had just said. But he had said nothing!
‘I think he’s ill,’ said Chegory, alarmed and concerned for the health of the man who had that day befriended him.
Meanwhile, Xter was grimly marching forward. Why? Because of something Odolo had done? Or what? Aquitaine Varazchavardan was getting to his feet. Varazchavardan and Xter confronted each other, as if for battle.
Then the conjuror Odolo screamed like a virgin molested in her chamber by an incubus.
‘Odolo!’ said Chegory frantically, rising from the table as he said it. ‘He’s sick, he-’
‘It’s all right,’ said Justina, calmly abandoning her own seat. ‘We’ll take him somewhere quiet then-’
But whatever intervention of mercy she had contemplated came to nothing. For, before she could say another word, it happened. Great gouts of smoke and magniloquent flame burst from Odolo’s mouth. He vanished behind this incendiary confusion.
‘Good grief!’ said the Empress Justina. ‘Spontaneous combustion! The poor man’s caught fire! No, Cheggy! Stay back! You’ll get burnt as well!’
