The Wazir and the Witch coaaod-7

by Hugh Cook

  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. S peak, 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 C
rab, 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 the 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.

  ‘At least my dragon has been fed,’ said Justina.

  Indeed it had, for there was fresh milk-soaked c amp;ssava bread and a quarter of a corpse worm on the dragon’s saucer. Injiltaprajura yawned, and stretched baby dragon wings. She looked closer still. Unless she was mistaken, the dragon was ever so slightly jaundiced. That was no good! What should she do?

  ‘Where now?’ said Chegory.

  A good question!

  Justina was momentarily at a loss for an answer, and so pretended she had not heard. Chegory spoke again. Louder, this time. And by then Justina had an answer.

  ‘Where?’ she said. ‘To the roof, of course! Seize the high ground!’

  ‘Whatever for?’ said Olivia.

  ‘So we can see what’s going on,’ said Justina. ‘Olivia, you can carry my dragon.’

  So saying, Justina took the saucer upon which the dragon rode in state, and handed it to the Ashdan lass.

  ‘Take this?’ said Olivia. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘I think it needs some sun,’ said Justina. ‘It’s getting jaundiced. Don’t drop it!’

  And with that, Justina set out for the roof forthwith, thinking furiously as she did so. What should she do next?

  Justina’s main problem was that the fundamental political dynamic of Untunchilamon remained unchanged, and that dynamic was hostile to her. The greatest force for evil on the island was the favoured religion of Aldarch the Third, that is to say the worship of Zoz the Ancestral. Ultimately, when it came to the crunch, a substantial part of the populace would side with Aldarch the Third or his minions. And now that the Multilator of Yestron was known to have triumphed in Talonsklavara, now that Al’three was revealed as the victor, the populace had little excuse for enduring the rule of the Family Thrug any longer.

  So whatever Justina tried — be it a bluff with a false wazir or an imitation Crab — it would have to be very very good.

  Otherwise she would shortly lose her head.

  Justina was still thinking through her problems when she came out on to the roof. And the first thing she saw was Pelagius Zozimus
, the wizard of the order of Xluzu who had lately served the Crab so well as a master chef. Zozimus was stark naked, a condition which lacked erotic appeal; for, while Zozimus was still hale in limb and shapely enough, the Empress was not in the mood. Besides being naked, the wizard was also dripping wet. ‘What have you been doing to yourself?’ said Justina. ‘That,’ said Zozimus, ‘is a long story.’

  Since Nixorjapretzel Rat had hexed Pelagius Zozimus, the unfortunate wizard of Xluzu had been incarnated variously (this list, please note, is not exhaustive) as a grampus, a sun scorpion, a beady-eyed puttock, an eyeless whore’s egg, an ostrich, a snow dragon, a puma and a penguin. In the last-named incarnation, Zozimus had recently been swimming in Justina’s rooftop swimming pool, which he had found uncomfortably warm for his blubber-clad penguin body. But for the moment his original flesh had reclaimed him, though he had no certainty that such reclamation would be permanent.

  ‘Well,’ said Justina, ‘tell us your long story. Then we’ve one of our own to tell.’

  Already Justina was figuring Pelagius Zozimus into her political calculations. Was he her ally? Not exactly. But he was not her enemy, either. He was a wizard, and so naturally at odds with Untunchilamon’s wonder workers, and so ‘You may think you have time for long stories,’ said Zozimus, ‘but in fact you do not.’

  ‘And why not, may I ask?’ said Justina.

  ‘Go to the edge of the roof,’ said Zozimus. ‘The view answers all.’

  Justina went to the edge of the roof and looked out over portside Injiltaprajura. There were two ships in the harbour. The personal banner of Aldarch the Third flew from the masts of both, and both were disembarking troops.

  ‘It’s him!’ said Juliet Idaho.

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense, Julie,’ said Justina sharply.

  ‘Those are the Mutilator’s banners!’ said Idaho.

  ‘Yes, and any of his generals can fly them,’ said Justina. ‘He’s not here himself, he can’t be. He’d lose the Izdimir Empire entirely if he trifled himself here to dispute possession of this overgrown bloodstone ballast block.’