The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers coaaod-6

by Hugh Cook

  As Varazchavardan had the full weight and majesty of the state behind him, it was Ingalawa who had to drop her eyes and give way. Thus Chegory entered the Star Chamber with a broad band of blue slashed across his face. He looked quite the clown. Like an actor from the Broko Comedy Theatre, in fact. Though there was nothing amusing about his predicament.

  The Star Chamber was the newest part of the pink palace. It was a large hall which had been tacked on to the northern side of the palace. Its pink walls rose to a pink dome high above. Windows inset where wall met dome allowed a pink-tinged light to flood the room, which was tiled with pink tiles, and came complete with a pink-painted mezzanine floor supported by pillars of pink stone. Today the Star Chamber was almost empty, for crushing heat had dissuaded the idle elements of the rabble from attending. A few messenger boys and lawyers’ clerks hung around, chewing on betel nut or sticks of pandanus, but the bulk of the mob was absent.

  Artemis Ingalawa seated herself with authority on one of the long benches of woven bamboo provided for onlookers. She looked around severely. She was in her power mood, her managing mood, her executive mood. In which she was potentially very dangerous. Note that while Artemis Ingalawa had been born into the culture of elegance which dominates Ashmolea South, her family actually came from Ashmolea North. There the Ingalawa clan is notorious for breeding slaughter swords and assassins.

  Blood will tell!

  Chegory, fearing as much, hoped Ingalawa would not precipitate any untoward incidents. If she did, he didn’t think he could cope. He was too tired. So tired he would need but to close his eyes to voyage instantly into dreams. But his blood rose on the moment to the alert when Olivia seated herself beside him and took his hand. Ah yes! He rose and roused! Consumed by thoughts of juice and softness, of the monstrous secret crouched between her thighs, of harlot-fingered night engorging the cravings of her pubic whirlpool, of [Here a lengthy and turgid digression of considerable improbability has been excised. By Order, Drax Lira, Redactor Major.]

  Yet Chegory’s pleasure was not perfected by Olivia’s presence, for he was all too conscious of Varazchavardan’s pink eyes dragonising him. The white-fleshed Master of Law had a predator’s eyes and claws to match. When Chegory closed his own eyes to avoid that implacable stare, he could not help but imagine those claws whittling away his flesh till they reached his very bones.

  Slowly, the other actors in this courtroom drama gathered into the Star Chamber. Here came the conjuror Odolo. Sweating — and not just because of the heat. Then the Empress Justina arrived, handbag in hand, to spectate at the depositions hearing — the actual conduct of which would be governed by Judge Qil.

  On this day of butterfly dreams and banana-skinned decision [Words doubtless senseless, but there is no helping that. Often one suspects that the Version we are translating from is hopelessly corrupt. But what can one expect from a madman? This insertion here placed by Valther Nash, Consulting Translator.]

  — the Empress was wearing a curious confection which was composed mostly of string, with but a little silk at each of the seven Strategic Places.

  [One of the Strategic Places is the omphalos, but I have been unable to precisely locate the other six. These matters are dealt with in detail in the Book of Flesh, but access to this scholarly treatise has been denied to me by a prudish Librarian Major. Oris Baumgage, Fact Checker Minor.]

  The Empress smiled upon Chegory Guy, her smile making it very, very clear that she had not forgotten him. Then she saw Olivia was cosseting Chegory’s hand.

  ‘Who is your charming young friend?’ said Justina, in tones less than entirely friendly.

  ‘This is but — but a friend of my family,’ said Chegory, inventing as best he could.

  Was Olivia at risk? Perhaps! Yet Chegory, feeling her stiffen, knew he should not have spoken of her in such dismissive tones. She was offended. She was, after all, an Ashdan — and these people have far more pride than the rest of us.

  ‘What kind of friend?’ said Justina, in tones auger-sharp. Sweat dripped from Chegory Guy’s forehead as he sought desperately for some adroit way to resolve his difficulties; that is, to divert Justina’s attention from Olivia without offending that delicious young personage. He failed entirely. To his horror, he heard himself saying:

  ‘Oh, just some Ashdan.’

  Young lovers take note: this is not the way to talk of the lust of your heart in her presence. In proof of which, Olivia took umbrage immediately, and removed herself. Chegory wanted to flee to her side, to apologise, to kneel and kiss, to whisper and grovel. But he was not free to so express himself, for the Empress Justina was still talking to him:

  ‘… which will be tonight.’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Chegory.

  ‘You have an audience with me,’ said the Empress Justina. ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’ said Chegory, gaping like an idiot.

  ‘All night,’ said the Empress Justina. ‘From dusk to dawn. Undokondra and bardardornootha entire and complete.’

  ‘My… my lady. I am… I am honoured. But — um — ah…’

  But Olivia would kill him.

  ‘We are glad you are properly appreciative of the honour,’ said Justina severely. ‘That is as it should be. Wait here once you have given evidence. We shall meet at session’s end.’

  Thus she spake, then smiled, and withdrew.

  Chegory swore to himself as he watched the Empress seat herself on a chair of woven cane and place her crocodileskinned handbag down beside her. A sensible choice was this chair of cane, for it was far too hot to endure the magnificence of a velvet-clad throne. Slaves, each wearing naught but a tight-strapped codpiece, fanned her with ostrich feathers.

  [One doubts that either the Empress Justina or her slaves could have been attired as suggested by the Originator. One recalls, for a start, that the ostrich is a purely mythical beast. Yet there are improbabilities here which are larger yet. In all likelihood the descriptions of dress given above are but a quirk of the Originator’s purile imagination. Doubdess the Empress and her slaves were in fact decently clad in woollen gowns and leather weather helms. Sot Dawbler, School of Commentary.]

  Then the depositions hearing commenced. Chegory was among the first to give evidence, but once finished he could not leave the session because the Empress Justina had commanded him to wait. Thus he sat solitary. Sweating. Aware that he was being dragonised by the Empress, by Qasaba and Ingalawa, and by Varazchavardan himself.

  Gods! What ivsill become of me?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  At length the depositions hearing came to an end. Judge Qil announced his decision.

  ‘Odolo,’ he said, ‘you can count yourself lucky. I am dismissing several of the charges which have been laid against you. First, the smoking charge. It would be wrong for you to be put on trial for smoking at a royal banquet since the smoking the law alludes to clearly relates to the consumption by combustion of kif, opium or grass clippings.

  ‘I am reluctantly dismissing the charges of keeping an unmuzzled dragon within the city limits, of displaying a dragon with intent to terrorise and of allowing a dragon to come in close proximity to alcohol. To my deep regret, the law is clear. For the purpose of the relevant clauses a dragon is strictly defined as an imperial dragon, land dragon or sea dragon. The corpse master Uckermark has testified that dissection proves your alleged creation to be none of these three, hence while it is obviously a dragon of some description it is not a dragon for the purposes of the law. It may however be a dog, but that seems doubtful — so the alternative charges of keeping, displaying and allowing a dog are also struck out.

  ‘A charge of transforming yourself into a beast of terror is also dismissed, as are the accusations of witchcraft, illegal hypnotism, heresy, insult general to a public religion and striking fear into the heart of the Empress. The last charge cannot be sustained since our beloved Empress is the daughter of a Yudonic Knight and is known to be fearless.’ By now both Justina and Odolo w
ere smiling on the judge. But the eminent Qil was not finished. He continued: ‘However, Odolo, on many counts a prima facie case has been established against you.’

  The conjuror cringed. The very vraisemblance of cowardice incarnate. The judge onspake remorselessly:

  ‘Therefore I am committing you to trial on two charges of high treason, three of middle treason, one of low treason and a half-charge of sub-treason. You will also be tried on charges of revolution, waging war against the state, attempted murder, practising generative magic without a licence, littering, common insolence, disorderly conduct, and conduct prejudicial to civil discipline.’

  The last charge was the most dangerous because, as virtually anything anyone does can be construed as conduct prejudicial to civil discipline, it is near impossible to launch an effective defence against such a charge. This is why in my own case I had to plead temporary insanity when- [The Originator here presents us with an extended plea in mitigation to explain the conduct of his own life. This has been deleted on the grounds that it is (a) indecent and (b) libellous. Scholars who inspect the unexpurgated text of the original manuscript will doubtless agree that there is nothing temporary about the Originator’s insanity. Srin Gold, Commentator Extraordinary.]

  The judge concluded by saying:

  ‘Have you anything to say?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Odolo. ‘That I’m innocent!’ Then he turned to the Empress Justina to cry: ‘My lady! Have mercy! I beg you!’

  Odolo’s guards roughed him to silence. Justina studied him. Then, with a faint smile on her lips, she said: ‘Should I have mercy? Who will advise me? No, Varazchavardan — I can guess your counsel already.’ She turned to Chegory Guy. Her smile deepened. ‘Let’s try… let’s try advice from another source. Pray tell, what would an Ebrell Islander do?’

  Even though there were but few people in the Star Chamber, an audible murmur of outrage ran round that Chamber when thus the Empress spoke. Even Chegory himself was shocked. He slumped down in his chair. Cringing. Pretending he was invisible. Pretending he was asleep. But, as a guard was already poking him with a scimitar, he rapidly realised this strategy could not succeed. Reluctandy, he got to his feet to say:

  ‘It is not for an Ebrell Islander to dispose of the lives and laws of the free citizens of Untunchilamon.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Justina. ‘All citizens are equal under law, are they not? Lawyers are but citizens like the rest, yet venture to give me advice on a daily basis. If lawyers, then why not you?’

  ‘Because-’ ventured Varazchavardan.

  ‘Silence, Vazzy!’ said the Empress in a head-chopping voice. ‘It’s far too hot for argument. Let’s hear the boy speak.’

  Varazchavardan ventured no more, but waited for Chegory to give them the benefit of his wisdom. As did everyone. They waited and they watched. Chegory wanted to vanish. To disappear in a clap of thunder and a puff of smoke. To run and run and run and never be seen in Injiltaprajura again. For whatever he said was bound to be wrong. He was totally exposed. Totally vulnerable. Worse Whatever he said, did or tried he was sure to remain visible, exposed and vulnerable. Famous, in a word. For the last couple of days had won him so much notoriety that he would never again be able to pretend he was a rock. His days of safety were over, so doubtless his deathday lay very close in the future.

  Then Chegory was seized by inspiration. He turned to Varazchavardan to say:

  ‘Uh, I’m not, um, how do I say this, well, I’m not, I am not of the Wise, okay, thus seek the help of the Wise. Help of the Master of Law. Varazchavardan the, uh, honourable. We don’t know each other but maybe we could. Know each other, I mean. If he could help me just a bit with this, uh, legal thing, I’d, well, whatever I could help him with I would.’

  Chegory was doing his best. He was trying to say:

  ‘Dear Varazchavardan, you whom I love and respect above all other men, forget you ever saw me with the mad pirates who tried to kidnap you Downstairs. Forget that. Remember instead that I’m the latest imperial favourite. My friendship could be worth having. So do me a favour. Help me out.’

  Considering how much he could not say outright he managed (or thought he managed) to get quite a lot of this across. He was most pleased with his eloquent little speech. But was Varazchavardan pleased? The worm-white albino regarded the blood-red Ebby in silence. While the Master of Law never later discussed what he was thinking at that time, we can deduce his thoughts effortlessly, and with a high degree of probability.

  Doubdess Varazchavardan reflected on Chegory’s Ebrell origin, with its implications in terms of a natural affinity for death-liquor in all its manifestations. This Ebby looked young enough, fast enough, tough enough. A knife-capable young man. Who (for the moment) had the ear of the Empress herself. An ally potent. An enemy dangerous. Thus (doubdess) Varazchavardan thought.

  Then said:

  ‘I welcome this pledge of allegiance from the young Ebrell Islander. I have oft thought that we underestimate the capabilities of our red-skinned friends. I will welcome the opportunity to talk with him in private hereafter.’

  On hearing this, Chegory sat back in his chair with a feeling of sweet release and relief. He had done it! He had turned the wrath of Varazchavardan away from himself. He had turned an enemy into an ally. He was very pleased with himself. But he had no time for extended self-congratulation, for Varazchavardan was onspeaking still. Chegory had missed part of his speech, but realised it concerned Odolo:

  ‘… would be the consequences of extending mercy before trial? Surely a key function of the law is to determine the truth. Once the truth is known then we can contemplate mercy. But mercy now would be a sorry blow to the determination of truth. Hence I say this.’

  Varazchavardan paused for breath, but did not proceed to say this. Or that. Or the other. For he was interrupted by the arrival of Dolglin Chin Xter, who had not been seen in public since the dragon manifested itself in the banqueting hall of the pink palace. Yes — Dolglin Xter. Have you forgotten him? Already!? Then do not tell him, or he will be mortally offended! Remember, you were properly introduced. Dolglin Chin Xter! Head of Justina’s Inquisition into drug pushing on Untunchilamon! Remember now?

  Xter is the one who is as yellow as the flesh of a mango, thanks to the disease which has him in its grip. Why he is not dead of hepatitis is a mystery. Why sweat pours from his skin is a mystery also, but a lesser one; heat, hepatitis and malaria may all have something to do with it. As for his shaking hand — why, that may well be the fear-palsy. For the Inquisitor has committed himself to a potentially lethal course: a public confrontation with Varazchavardan.

  Dolglin Chin Xter, then.

  That is who he is (or was — he may be dead by now) and here is what he said:

  ‘Have I leave to speak?’

  Not the most dramatic of things to say. After the build-up above you may well think it bathotic. If so, blame history, not me. This is but a record of events, and of words spoken in the course of events, and one cannot righdy distort history for the sake of drama. Doubtless it would have been more satisfactory (from a dramatic point of view) if Dolglin Xter had burst into the Star Chamber shouting thus:

  ‘Varazchavardan, you foul demonic blotch of blood! You, most evil and most blood-greedy of a brood of scorpions! It is you who I accuse, for you have been discovered! All is known! Prepare to meet your doom!’

  However, Dolglin Xter did not speak thus. What he actually did say (‘Have I leave to speak?’) was the right and appropriate thing to say under the circumstances, for even an inquisitor cannot interrupt a depositions hearing in the Star Chamber with impunity.

  Thus did the Empress Justina reply:

  ‘Of course, Dolly my darling. Speak on for as long as you wish.’

  But Dolglin Chin Xter at first did not speak at all. Instead, yellow Xter ominous looked left to right and around, then pegged his gaze on Varazchavardan.

  [Translator’s Note: Here the syntax and vocabulary of the Original are o
bscure in the extreme. This temporary Version must serve until scholarship has given us a definitive Interpretation.]

  Then Xter did begin to speak, saying:

  ‘Here the best minds of Untunchilamon sit in solemn ceremony, considering the case of the conjuror Odolo.’ Why did he say that? Everyone present knew as much. He was only stating the obvious. Doubtless his legal training was to blame. Yes, Xter was something of a lawyer, and nine-tenths of the practice of law is to win economic advantage by laboriously stating and restating the obvious in order to delay the resolution of the matter at hand so that the attendant legal fees may be increased to a level commensurate with lawyerly greed.

  Fortunately, since Xter was very ill, the pressures of physical disability curtailed the loquacity to which his training had predisposed him, and he thereafter got down to business instanter:

  ‘Some would say that justice is thereby served. But I would beg to differ. This trial is a nonsense.

  ‘It is a nonsense to accuse Odolo of creating a dragon at banquet. For such powers of creation are vested in only the greatest. Odolo is but a prestigitator whose sole skill lies in manual manipulation. What lunacy could make anyone think this idle entertainer could have created a dragon?

  ‘The true villain is another person altogether. Aquitaine Varazchavardan! Yes, Varazchavardan made that dragon. He made it in an attempt to kill me. Why? Because my Inquisition was on the brink of proving his guilt. Now we have proved it! The last evidence has been obtained! Varazchavardan is a drug dealer!’

  Dolglin Chin Xter paused. Not for dramatic effect, but to recover his breath. Nevertheless, while his motives for the pause were mundane, the effect was dramatic in the extreme.

  The pause gave Chegory the chance to curse himself for erring most dreadfully. When he had met Varazchavardan Downstairs under inauspicious circumstances the wonderworker had not been supervising a raid on an illegal warehouse — no, he had been the proprietor of that warehouse!