by Hugh Cook
In His wickerwork cage, the Cockroach stirs. Already He is huge, a handspan in length at least; but He will grow larger yet if the adoration of His congregation continues, for offerings are brought to the warehouse daily for His delectation. There is cheese made from the milk of goats; and that far rarer and enormously expensive cheese made (in small quantities, and only for the most dedicated of connoisseurs) from the milk of monkeys. There are mangos, bits of baked banana frog, chunks of well-cooked taro and fractions of sugar cane; and on all this He feeds as He sees fit.
Elsewhere, in the pink palace (we have, you see, departed from Xtokobrokotok, have ghosted up Goldhammer Rise, have sped up Lak Street with a speed which draws its inspiration from lightning’s example, and have penetrated the walls of the palace like so many ghosts) Justina Thrug is unsoundly asleep.
Up from the depths of Moana mounts a tsunami, rising to a crescendous crest which seemed for a moment to stall before it fell. Then fall it does, breaking into a roar of dragon-outdoing wrath which plunges across the Outer Reef, shocking the sands of Scimitar with its onslaught. On it plunges, sweeping across Jod, demolishing the white marble of the Analytical Institute, then lunging across the Laitemata to earthquake into the streets of Injiltaprajura.
Screams thrash in moilstorm waters.
Then the tsunami is retreating in flurries of foaming red, the colour supplied by churned sand, crushed coral and shattered bloodstone, and by more than a little of that precious ichor which flows in the veins of human beings. It is retreating, and leaving behind it broken rags, wet bones and gasping teeth.
Thus Justina’s dream.
Shocked by a lathering of wet water, she abrupts from sleep, gasps for air, claws, grasps, wrenches, pulls.
Her mosquito net collapses around her, downfolding in whispers softer than silk, caresses lighter than a lover’s touch. Justina lies beneath its web.
Waits.
Listens.
There is no water.
There is no wave.
It was all her dream.
At length, she falls to sleep again, and dreams this time of Wen Endex. She stands in the swamplands with an orking harpoon in her hands, waiting for her quarry. A dream of the past, this, for no orking has taken place in Justina’s lifetime. The most solemn treaties now bind orks and Yudonic Knights in common cause. Yet Justina dreams of ork blubber. Rich, fat and nuggety. Most princely of feasts.
Then wakes.
It is dawn.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Justina Thrug woke from unabashed dreams of orking, of lusty slaughter and rapturous feasting. She experienced a momentary guilt, for these were dreams of the Forbidden. Orking was the great racial crime of the children of Wen Endex. In their lust for blood, bone and blubber, the Yudonic Knights and their legions of underlings had exterminated every ork in the swamplands of their homeland. Such wholehearted murder had bloated Galsh Ebrek with treasure; had overloaded the coffers of the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association until those coffers screamed in protest; had made the Homeland so rich in its debauchery that in one memorable year it imported (a record, this, at least for the region) a full seven previously unrecorded venereal diseases.
The swamp-whales had barely escaped extinction; the poor orks only survived as a breed thanks to the foresight of those of their kind who had fled to refuges in the Qinjoks. At that time, when the orks had been so over-hunted that there was no commercial advantage to be gained from their further exploitation, the Yudonic Knights at last sent their ambassadors to this persecuted people and made a peace.
A peace which the orks trusted not, in token of which mistrust they rigorously practised contraception, lest an increase in their population tempt the very temptable Yudonic Knights to a feat of collective oathbreaking and untrammelled genocide.
Thus Justina woke and felt guilty. But guilt was brief though waking was long; for the Empress Justina was far too busy to spare much thought for the horrors of the past. Untunchilamon stood unchanged. Another hot and sultry day was begun. A day bereft of wind: something all Injiltaprajura would lament, for lack of wind would further delay the rest of the Trade Fleet.
The lordess of the pink palace began that day’s work by ascending early to the roof of her pink palace to inspect Sken-Pitilkin’s airship. She was pleased to see the elderly wizard was already at work. Reconstruction of his scattered ship was going apace. But Justina nevertheless had a measure of displeasure to express.
‘Sken-Pitilkin!’ said she severely. ‘Where were you yesterday afternoon?’
‘In bed,’ said the wizard. ‘Laid up with a touch of the centipedes.’
‘If diarrhoea’s your problem, then boil your water. What about the afternoon of the day before? What was your excuse for that?’
‘I’m an old man,’ said Sken-Pitilkin. ‘You can’t work me as you would a cane cutter.’
‘You could try harder,’ said Justina, not one whit impressed by su ch excuses. ‘You will today, won’t you?’ ‘My psychic powers tell me th e day will be hot,’ said Sken-Pitilkin. ‘I fear the onset of heat-stro ke toward noon.’
‘Heatstroke!’ said Justina. ‘Laziness, that’s what I call it. A full day’s work, that’s the least I expect.’
But, to Justina’s dismay, Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin refused to promise to put in more than half a day’s work on his new airship. She remonstrated with him, saying their need was urgent. Prolonged remonstrations brought her no further success. But she was right. Their need was urgent.
As yet, there were but five ships in the Laitemata. Three had stayed there all through the Long Dry. Two were newcomers, one being the Oktobdoj which had brought Jean Froissart and Manthandros Trasilika to the place of their deaths. Justina, as has been noted already, needed at least a dozen ships to get her loyal supporters away to safety.
However, as the days went by, Justina was beginning to despair of the arrival of any more ships. Furthermore, a showdown with the mob was fast approaching. Signs of riot were everywhere. It would happen, and happen soon.
Thus Justina desperately needed Sken-Pitilkin’s airship.
Was she then thinking of deserting her loyal supporters and fleeing alone to save her own skin?
No.
But it had occurred to her that an airship travels much faster than a bark of normal breed; so, despite the limited capacity of Sken-Pitilkin’s flying bird’s nest, it might yet prove an effective vehicle of evacuation. A shuttle service could scarcely hope to complete this great escape in secret. Yet all was not lost. At a pinch, Justina’s people could trek into the wastes of Zolabrik. A desperate move, since a journey so dangerous would mean the deaths of many; but a move which would put them beyond the reach of the disloyalists. Then were the nest to become airworthy, Justina’s people could be ferried in handfuls to distant shores until all had been taken upon that journey.
The Empress said nothing of this to the wizard, thinking (rightly) that he might object to the immense labour of ferrying a dozen shiploads of people across the ocean at the rate of a handful a time.
Thus the Empress Justina had a plan, a plan which might yet succeed in the absence of her twelve much-desired ships. But she needed time. Which was why, after her interview with Sken-Pitilkin, she descended to her study, there to await the arrival of the corpse-master Uckermark.
While Justina was waiting (and demolishing a large breakfast during the wait) one of Theodora’s chickens wandered into the study.
‘Out!’said Justina.
‘Bruck bruck bruck bruck!’ said the chicken.
Justina kicked it, and if fled with a flapping of wings.
Those chickens!
Justina hated the very sight of them.
For, while the Empress Justina was wont to let her own desires have their way with her flesh, she nevertheless thought that her sister Theordora went far, far too far in the direction of outright debauchery.
At length Uckermark arrived, looking somewhat wary. He felt he had done very well fo
r himself, for his position as legal counsel for the Cult of the Holy Cockroach made him safe from even the wrath of Aldarch Three, despite his previous connections and alliances with the Empress Justina. He had no wish to compromise his present advantages (safety, a measure of power, ample remuneration, prestige and the friendship of Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek) by involvement in whatever harebrained scheme the Empress had dreamed up.
Nevertheless, he could not deny that he owed Justina a debt. Several debts, in fact.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Justina, divining his anxieties. ‘I ask nothing from you yourself but an introduction to a good forger.’
‘For what?’ said Uckermark, all curiosity.
Justina told him.
‘There is a Secret History afloat in Injiltaprajura. Fractions of this Injiltaprajuradariski have been found in all manner of places. It is written in Slandolin. I have people who can compose in that language. They have done so. We have made a libel upon the life of Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek. Now we want this forged in the handwriting of the unknown author of the Injiltaprajuradariski. We paint Ek as a secret heretic; and by leaking our forgeries we hope to turn his mob against him, or at least confuse that mob until its wrath becomes impotent.’
‘It won’t work,’ said Uckermark.
So Justina told him the truth. Many bits and pieces of the Secret History made mention of an organic rectifier, an immortality machine which also had the ability to convert male flesh to female, or Crab to human.
‘Our forgeries,’ said Justina, ‘will prove that Ek has such a machine himself. Jealously he guards it. He has made himself immortal, but denies this privilege to all others.’
‘People will never believe that,’ said Uckermark.
‘Of course they will,’ said Justina. ‘Ek’s a mutant. You can see it in the eyes. People are always ready to believe ill of a mutant.’
If Ek were widely believed to have the secret of immortality then he would be torn to pieces by a thousand people in search of the same. That, at any rate, was what Justina believed, and thanks to her powers of persuasion she soon converted Uckermark to her belief. ‘There remains,’ said Uckermark, ‘one little question.’ ‘You’ve no need to ask it,’ said Justina. ‘Believe me, the tax status of the Cult of the Holy Cockroach is safe no matter what. If Ek dies, I guarantee the continuation of your privileges.’
‘That,’ said Uckermark, ‘is all I wanted to hear.’
And, that very day, he sought out a forger and brought the man privily to the pink palace so the work could begin.
Justina was delighted.
Once the Empress Justina had her forgeries to hand, Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek would find that he was not the only person on Untunchilamon who knew how to stir up a mob.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A run on a bank can be disastrous both for the bank and its customers, the panic of the few leading to financial disaster for the many. The reasons for this are very simple. A bank commonly lends out as much as eighty per cent of its depositors’ funds, keeping only a little cash on hand. This is sound business practice, but means such organizations can easily be ruined if depositors come clamouring en masse for their monies.
Accordingly, governments will often intervene to prevent or ameliorate such a run in its early stages.
Aldarch the Third once did as much in Obooloo when the Brothelmaster’s Credit Union came under seige as a result of scurrilous rumours circulated by its enemies. Al’three did not forbid depositors to withdraw their funds. No, he merely ordered his guards to chop off the noses and ears of any customers who insisted on withdrawing more than ten per cent of their funds on any one day.
Since most of the Mutilator’s soldiers were Enumerate, they were incapable of computing the relevant percentages. So, knowing that the Lord of Knives admires zeal, they applied their surgical expertise to every single person who entered the premises of the Brothelmaster’s Credit Union; and, in their enthusiasm, removed eyes, lips and tongues as well as noses and ears.
This application of martial technique to a financial problem brought immediate satisfaction, for the run on the Credit Union ended within the day; and, furthermore, the Union enjoyed years of unprecedented liquidity thereafter, for only the most courageous of its depositors were brave enough to demand so much as a broken damn from the place.
By application of similar techniques, the Empress Justina could have ended the run on the Narapatorpabarta Bank. But of course she did no such thing; and, by the next day, the run on the N’barta had gathered such momentum that a much-worried Chief Accountant estimated that the institution would be bankrupt by noon. This greatly disconcerted Justina’s agents, for if the N’barta actually ran out of money and had to close its doors then the cunning plan of entrapment would come to naught.
However, istarlat was only half over when an excited clerk slipped behind the scenes with breathless news.
‘What is it?’ said one of the agents.
But the clerk could not speak. His news was so breathless it had precipitated an asthma attack.
‘It must be the blackmailer,’ said one of the agents.
A guess, but accurate regardless.
Moments later, another clerk came backstage.
‘Hurry!’ said the clerk. ‘He’s getting impatient.’
‘Who is?’ said one of the agents.
‘The man you seek.’
‘Can you point him out to us?’
‘Do you ever ask an intelligent question? Of course I can!’
Thus it was that a would-be blackmailer was very shortly arrested on the floor of the N’barta, that blackmailer being none other than Nixorjapretzel Rat.
‘Back!’ cried the young sorcerer, throwing up his hands. ‘Back! Or I’ll turn you into scorpions!’
Such was his threat, but with three crossbows pointing variously at his heart, his liver and his left kneecap, he dared try no expedient so uncertain.
Even had Rat been a wizard, he would still have hesitated under such circumstances; and of course young Nixorjapretzel was not a wizard but a wonder-worker. The powers of such sorcerers are flamboyant and readily renewed; unlike wizards, they have no need to indulge in laborious meditations, nor do they find themselves powerless for days at a time after great expenditures of power. From which the unwise might be tempted to deduce that the powers of sorcery exceed those of wizardry: a temptation to which sorcerers themselves have yielded on occasion.
But it is not so.
For wizards by their labours forge alliances with dark and dangerous powers which permit such mages to make themselves into beings of an order different from the rest of humanity. When wizards are referred to (as they often are) as Lights in the Unseen Realm, such designation is far from idle; rather, it makes explicit a truth which some have thought monstrous.
But the consequence is that wizards ultimately possess their Powers in their own right, albeit at a price. Whereas sorcerers obtain their Effects in an altogether different way, which is that each permits his own partial possession by a demon. ‘Partial’ is the operative word here, and it is the partiality of such possession (combined with the poverty of intellect which characterizes so many demons) which serves to undermine the effectiveness of the wonder-workers.
We have seen young Nixorjapretzel in action already. In a mansion on Hojo Street, for example, where the Rat, seeking to make himself invisible, succeeded only in converting himself to a boiling cloud the colour of octopus ink. More examples of Rat’s ineptitude could be given to demonstrate the deficiencies of the wonder-workers. But such procedure would be unfair, for Rat compounded all the above-mentioned problems with problems of his own. A youthful impetuosity, for example, which led him to act in such haste and with so little forethought that it was difficult for his demon to keep up with his intentions. And, also, a certain weakness of personal intellect which was more the exception than the rule among the members of Injiltaprajura’s Cabal House.
It is unf
ortunate that the intellectually deficient Rat found himself linked with a particularly deficient demon. Not all demons are equal, and the Power which found itself in alliance with Nixorjapretzel Rat was more unequal than most; therefore the synergetic principle necessarily applies, with disaster the inevitable consequence.
Let us not therefore use the example of Rat as a weapon with which to landdamne the wonder-workers; for we are not wizards with professional jealousies to be served. Let us merely note that Nixorjapretzel Rat showed an uncommon leavening of wisdom when he meekly accompanied his captors to the pink palace, there to submit to interrogation at the hands (and, sometimes, at the feet) of that most formidable of Yudonic Knights, the ferocious Juliet Idaho.
The interrogation took place in Justina’s private study in the presence of Herself, the above-mentioned Juliet Idaho, and the conjuror Odolo who had lately served both Empress and Yudonic Knight as courier, ambassador and spy. We have seen Odolo in the past, bringing a message privily to Aquitaine Varazchavardan; while we have not see him since, he has been busy regardless, especially in organizing liaisons between the pink palace and the Crab’s young secretaries.
With that established, let us now attend to the interrogation.
Rat soon confessed. Yes, yes, he had tried to blackmail Bro Drumel. Why? Because he knew the imperial household intimately, and had (correctly) deduced that Drumel was by temperament the most likely to succumb to blackmail. He had bought a secret account from the N’barta, planning to draw on that account only after the political turmoil on Untunchilamon was long since over.
Yes, he had some of the Injiltaprajuradariski in his possession. Where? His stash was cached in a room in Ganthorgruk, a room he had rented specifically for the purpose.
Juliet Idaho thereupon dispatched the conjuror Odolo to Ganthorgruk to recover the relevant pages of the Secret History. As the olive-skinned foreigner lived in Ganthorgruk, he could venture to that huge and rotting doss-house without attracting attention. He did so, and brought back Rat’s treasure of manuscripts.
