by Hugh Cook
There were (Idaho later counted them) some 284 pages of ricepaper, each page utterly beleaguered by an onslaught of purple scripting in Ashdan orthography.
‘Next question,’ said Idaho, studying these inscrutable writings, ‘where did all this come from?’
Rat started to look uncomfortable.
‘Out with it!’ roared Idaho.
‘A — a family friend,’ said Rat.
‘Who?’ said Idaho.
‘Ms Mix,’ answered Rat.
‘Ms Mix?’ said Idaho in puzzlement.
‘The mother-in-law of the notorious Orge Arat.’
‘This Arat of yours may be notorious in your own mind but that’s not the case with mine,’ said Juliet Idaho. ‘Explain!’
Rat did so.
Orge Arat was a lunatic who had long been incarcerated in the Dromdanjerie. Orge Arat believed himself to be perfectly sane; indeed, such was the cunning of his lunacy that he thought himself to be a sane man pretending to be mad. Such was his derangement that he thought he had murdered his mother-in-law and was being held in the Dromdanjerie on that account; whereas in fact he had slaughtered an innocent tax inspector whom he had, in a fit of manic delusion, mistaken for his wife’s mother.
At last, in one of his rare lucid moments, Orge Arat had realized the truth. Ms Mix still lived! There was only one thing to do. He had packed up his belongings, including the Secret History on which he had long been working. Then he had broken out of the Dromdanjerie, whereafter he had stolen an axe and had proceeded to the domicile of Ms Mix, meaning in his sanity to accomplish the murder he had but imagined in his lunacy.
‘And?’ said Juliet Idaho.
‘Ms Mix,’said Rat,‘she’s… she’s very well built.’ ‘Well built?’
‘Not to put too fine a point upon it,’ said Rat, ‘she’s a… an ogre.’
Ms Mix was indeed an ogre, one of twenty-seven of that breed which dwelt in Injiltaprajura. She had laughed at Orge Arat’s axe. Then she had broken his arm.
‘Orge Arat escaped,’ said Rat, ‘but barely. He came to me for help. I gave him the courtesy of my protection. He rewarded me with these pages of manuscript, this being all he had to give.’
‘And you’ve been selling bits of it,’ said Juliet Idaho. ‘Oh no!’ said Rat. ‘What was given, I kept. But there was much more than this. He lost the rest when he fought with Ms Mix. This portion was bound to his chest, it being the most precious, for it was near the stage of final draft. But the rest he lost to the ogre. She must be the seller of those fragments you’ve seen or heard of elsewhere.’
‘Where’s Orge Arat now?’ said Juliet Idaho.
‘He’s disappeared,’ said Rat. ‘He’s vanished off the face of the earth.’
‘Impossible!’ said Idaho.
But it was quite possible. Orge Arat had indeed vanished off the face of the earth, though he had not gone far; he was afloat on the face of the sea, on a ship in the Laitemata Harbour. Orge Arat was a guest of Troldot ‘Heavy-Fist’ Turbothot, a trader from Hexagon who was adventuring round the world on the orders of Baron Farouk. The reasons for this guestship are complicated, and could make a book of their own; as no doubt they may some day, should Troldot Turbothot take it into his head to write his memoirs, or should the fair Theodora one day take upon herself the encyclopedic task of counting her chickens and cataloguing her lovers. But, while reason is complex, result is simple: Orge Arat was not to be found.
In the absence of an apprehendable Orge Arat, Juliet Idaho was all for daring Ms Mix in her lair and beating the truth out of her with the sharp edge of a hatchet. This was vetoed by the Empress Justina who thought, first, that they had as much of the truth as they needed for the moment; and, second, that Idaho was being over-optimistic in thinking himself able to get the better of an ogre in outright combat.
‘What I want, Julie,’ said the Empress, choosing her words with care, ‘is for you to leave poor Mix alone, at least for the moment.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ said Idaho.
‘But I am,’ said the Empress, with all the firmness at her command, which was considerable.
‘But — but now is the time to strike!’ said Idaho.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘But you promised! You promised me! You promised I’d get a chance to kill someone, and soon.’
‘Did I, Julie? I have no recollection of such a promise. But, look — our darling young Nixorjapretzel is starting to fidget. Why don’t you watch over him, Julie dear? There’s nine chances in ten he’ll make a break for it. Then all your dreams will come true.’
‘Right,’ said Juliet Idaho.
And the grim-faced Yudonic Knight (a naked blade by now just slightly more than at the ready) installed himself behind a trembling Nixorjapretzel Rat, a Rat who thereafter did not dare move so much as a finger, lest even a gesture so slight bring about his untimely demise.
Then the Empress Justina sent out for Shanvil Angarus May, the uncommonly loyal Ashdan warrior who, thanks to his knowledge of the Slandolin, had lately served her so well as a translator. There was shortly a knock at her door.
‘Come in!’ said the Empress.
But it was not May who entered; it was a servant bearing a tiny dish, a bright yellow dish carefully covered with a weighted piece of mosquito netting.
‘Here,’ said Justina, tapping her desk.
The servant set down the dish and withdrew. The Empress removed the mosquito net covering, revealing a writhing mass of fleas, mosquitoes, bedbugs and baby cockroaches. Each of these had been painstakingly disabled so it could not flee.
Justina whistled softly.
There was a faint rustling from the little nest of cat’s fur and feather-fluff which sat upon the imperial desk. A tiny head, heraldic in outline, peeped over the edge of that nest. It was the head of the dragon Untunchilamon, now much recovered from its skirmish with the seagulls of Jod. During the early days of its convalescence, the Empress Justina had observed this spitter of sparks stalk, singe, disable and consume a mosquito; which had given her the idea of introducing her fingerlength dragon to a diet of varied vermin. Such viands had found immediate favour with Untunchilamon, who had now recovered strength and vitality to the point of being able to fly.
‘Come forth, my lovely,’ said Justina, and whistled again.
There was a tiny squeak of enthusiasm as the dragon Untunchilamon plunged over the side of the nest and swaggered towards the dish of awaiting delights. Before long, all the wrigglers within had wriggled their last; and by the time Shanvil Angarus May put in an appearance, Untunchilamon was asleep.
May was soon at work on the Injiltaprajuradariski, skimming through the Secret History and decoding the really juicy bits on the spot.
‘Ah!’ said May. ‘Here’s something.’
‘Read,’ said Justina.
‘It’s about the organic rectifier,’ said May, glancing at Rat.
‘Don’t worry about young Nixorjapretzel,’ said the Empress. ‘I trust him implicitly.’
A statement which was meant to be reassuring, but which procured quite an opposite effect in the trembling breast of the sensitive Rat. For wherefore should the Empress trust him so unless she shortly planned to remove his head from his shoulders? Rat’s fear increased inordinately. Thus we see that the Empress erred in her treatment of the young sorcerer; but, in her defence, let it be said that she made such mistakes infrequently, and, while she blundered on this occasion, her motives were of the best.
‘I will read, then,’ said May, peering once more at the close-scorpioned purple scripting from which he was to translate. ‘It says that… Pokrov, it says, by which I presume it means our neighbour on Jod… it says Pokrov… ah, here’s the bit… I quote verbatim, it says, quote, Pokrov was immortal, hence lonely; for Shabble was a less than satisfactory companion for a life which might yet run for many millennia until it was terminated by accident or design. Therefore Pokrov wished for companions of his own breed. It was th
e arts of an organic rectifier which had made Pokrov immortal. Moreover, as Pokrov knew full well, another machine of such breed was very likely concealed in the magnanimous dark Downstairs; but there he was loathe to venture, for the potential rewards of such journeying were incommensurate in the dark of the dangers. Such was his fear that he was doomed, it seemed, to have no constant companionship down through the centuries.’
‘So Pokrov’s a coward,’ said Idaho, with a violence which made Rat flinch. ‘So let’s arrest him. Then chop off his head!’
‘Julie, darling,’ said tfie Empress Justina reprovingly, ‘your monomania ill becomes you. We will most certainly have a little chat with Pokrov, but undue bloodshed might draw attention to us from the most unwelcome quarters.’
It took but moments for the Empress to formulate an alternative plan. Chegory Guy and Olivia Qasaba, travelling ostensibly as secretaries of the Crab, were due to pay one of their regular visits to the pink palace at noon that day.
‘So,’ said Justina, ‘all we need do is ask that Ivan Pokrov accompany them so we may consult with him on… on, ah, a possible use of the Analytical Engine. That should do it.’
‘But noon is almost upon us,’ said Idaho.
‘The shadows lack some shortening yet,’ said May, ‘and I have strong legs. I will bear the message to Jod.’
Message-bear he did; leaving those in Justina’s study (Idaho, Rat, Odolo and Herself) to speculate fervidly on the possibilities surely to be made actualities by the pursuit and capture of an organic rectifier. Man to woman; woman to man; mortal flesh to immortal; and, not least of the promises of the future, Crab to human.
Were the Crab to become human, in gratitude it would surely accept the wazirship which bluff now claimed to be its choice. It would exercise its Powers to deny the shores of Injiltaprajura to enemies of the existing order. A result most greatly to be desired!
As Justina was thinking thus, the forger recruited to her cause by the corpse-master Uckermark was admitted to her study. He bowed, presented the Empress with five pages of close-scripted ricepaper, then withdrew. The Empress spread the pages out upon her desk and gazed upon them happily. She could not read the Slandolin in which they were written; indeed, the tiny letters tended to blur together in a single wash of purple unless she tightened her vision by squinting; but she knew exactly what was written there.
Each of the five pages claimed (in blatant libel) that Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek, High Priest of the Temple of Zoz the Ancestral, was in possession of an organic rectifier; and claimed, furthermore, that Ek had made exclusive and utterly selfish use of such an arcanum to make himself immortal. Justina planned to leak the five pages in sundry quarters and thus to turn the mob against the mutant. To her own advantage: for a mob which had demolished a High Priest of Zoz must necessarily fear retribution from Aldarch Three.
Given the nature and history of Aldarch III, it was entirely possible that such retribution might take the form of the execution of one person in every ten within the city of Injiltaprajura, or the blinding of nine in ten, or the lopping of the ears of ten-tenths of innocent and guilty alike. So there was a possibility — a slight possibility — that mob rule and its guilty aftermath might give Justina the political leverage she needed to unite her people into a coherent and patriotic whole.
Were she to succeed in such an enterprise, then denying Untunchilamon to an invasion fleet would be the easiest of tasks; for the seas of Moana were wide and dangerous; the lagoon approaches to Injiltaprajura long, narrow and tortuous; and Justina’s high-climbing city itself eminently defensible.
So Justina had great hopes for her forgeries; though the distribution of such would be a task of the utmost delicacy, and on this matter she was not yet quite sure how to proceed.
Maybe Log Jaris could help her.
In the meantime…
‘Come,’ said Justina, ‘let us retire to the Star Chamber.’
‘The study will serve,’ growled Idaho. ‘There’s only a few of us.’
‘Ah,’ said Justina, ‘but I want Varazchavardan to sit in on our revelations.’
‘Varazchavardan!’ said Idaho, scandalized.
‘He is my Master of Law,’ said Justina gently.
‘He tried to kill you.’
‘And who has not?’ said Justina.
‘I have not!’ said Idaho. ‘And I could name others. Why, by walking down Lak Street I could find drummers by the dozen who are innocent of all attempts on your life.’
‘Julie,’ said Justina, ‘why must you be so literal? I’m so good at rhetoric, and you always spoil it for me. My enemy’s enemy is my friend, is he not?’
‘He is,’ said Idaho grudgingly.
Since this was a fundamental doctrine of faith among the Yudonic Knights of Wen Endex, Idaho could scarcely deny it.
‘Well then,’ said Justina, ‘our dear friend Varazchavardan has Ek as his enemy, for Ek had refused his petition for pardon. It follows that Varazchavardan is our ally. Odolo, could you…’
‘It is done, my lady,’ said the olive-skinned conjuror, and bowed, and hied himself away to the nearby villa owned and occupied by Aquitaine Varazchavardan.
‘We will also want the counsel of Pelagius Zozimus,’ said Justina.
‘Then we’ll have to send someone chasing after May,’ said Idaho, ‘for Zozimus is on Jod with Pokrov and Crab.’
‘Much as it hurts me to contradict you, dear Julie, on this occasion I must. Unless I am sadly misinformed, the wizard is in our kitchen at this very moment, instructing my new chef in the making of pavlovas.’
‘Pavlova?’ said Idaho. ‘What is pavlova?’
‘An amusing dish most ruinous to the teeth but delighting to the t ongue,’ said Justina. ‘And, as I have no teeth worth mentioning, the t ongue is free to demand.’ ‘But what exactly is it, this pavlova?’ said
Idaho. ‘And who is your new chef? Why wasn’t I told about him?’
‘It’s a her, actually,’ said Justina. ‘Come, Julie, let us remove ourselves to the Star Chamber. Oh, and we’ll want Dardanalti in on this. And Sken-Pitilkin, if he’ll consent to spare a moment from his bird nesting.’
So saying, the Empress opened the door of her study, and Idaho escorted a quivering Rat into the corridor outside. The Empress followed, closing the door behind her. The study was empty and untenanted, the five sheets of the countervailing forgery spread out upon the imperial desk.
It was then that the dragon Untunchilamon bestirred itself, arched its back, fanned its wings briskly then took to the air. Round and round it went, flying thrice about the desk.
Then it dived.
Straight into the inkwell.
Sploosh!
Sprays of black ink flew forth as the dragon Untunchilamon kicked and cavorted in the delicious cool of this most interesting of substances. Then, in a rapture of selfgratification, it rolled itself dry, using for that purpose five sheets of purple-scripted ricepaper which might have been put out expressly for that purpose.
Whereafter the dragon, sated, exhausted and immensely pleased with itself (despite the fact that it was still somewhat inky), took itself off to its nest to siesta in earnest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When Shanvil Angarus May arrived on the island of Jod, he easily persuaded Ivan Pokrov to come to the pink palace with Chegory Guy and Olivia Qasaba. With them went the algorithmist Artemis Ingalawa, who invited herself along so she could supervise any bargaining on ‘a possible use of the Analytical Engine’.
Across the harbour bridge they went; then through the slumlands of Lubos; up Shindik Way to its intersection with Goldhammer Rise; then up Lak Street toward the pink palace.
Though he was on his way to an imperial palace to discuss affairs of state, Chegory Guy was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and boots. Had he wished, he could have demanded that he be provided with gorgeous embroidered robes of silk like those affected by Injiltaprajura’s wonder-workers; or he could have worn any of the fi
ve plain silken robes which had found their way into his wardrobe as a result of the generosity of the Empress Justina.
But Chegory, fearful of the hostility he felt his new eminence was arousing among the populace, did his best to pretend to humility.
At first, intoxicated by the heady combination of power and love, Chegory had worried not at all about the risks he was running. But old habits of caution and worry had rapidly reasserted themselves, to the point where, acutely conscious of the fragility of Untunchilamon’s present political arrangements, Chegory doubted they could or would last for much longer. Sooner or later, Injiltaprajura would realize that the Crab was not truly wazir. Then Chegory would have to deal with his enemies, these being all good citizens of Injiltaprajura who feared or hated Ebbies. Once they knew that Chegory was virtually ruling Untunchilamon in his own right, then they would surely tear him to pieces.
It greatly annoyed Chegory that his dearest darling Olivia had very little sense of the dangers they were running. She adorned herself with fine silks and with jewellery lent to her by the Empress; and this display of finery would, Chegory feared, be held against her when at last the two of them had to survive without the protection of the illusion which was now the sole guardian of their safety.
‘It’s so hot,’ said Olivia, as they tramped uphill past that ship-sized monolith of bone known as Pearl. ‘If it gets any hotter, I’m going to melt.’
‘Don’t say that,’ said Chegory in distress.
He thought — for a moment — that she was going mad. While boarding at the Dromdanjerie, he had become familiar with many kinds of lunacy, including the unfortunate condition in which one imagines oneself to be literally melting.
‘I was only joking,’ said Olivia crossly.
Chegory almost made a sharp retort, but restrained himself. He wiped his sweating brow and looked up. Sunbright lightlances stabbed out from the glitter dome atop the pink palace. Chegory looked away. Purple sunlights danced across his field of vision like so many minor hallucinations caused by the ingestion of a mild dose of zen.
