by Hugh Cook
‘Then one of his generals is here!’ said Idaho. ‘We will fight and die!’
‘We will not fight,’ said Justina firmly, ‘and we will not die.’
She looked at the airship. To her untrained eye, it looked as if it was almost finished.
‘Pelagius!’ said Justina. ‘Where is your brother? It is time for us to leave, and I know not the secret of flying his airship.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Zozimus, ‘for it is a branch of wizardry entirely different to mine. I don’t know where Sken-Pitilkin is, either. Oh, and while I’m about it — he’s my cousin, not my brother.’
‘Pedantry!’ muttered Justina. ‘But what can one expect from a wizard?’
Then, nothing daunted, she scrambled into the airship, seeking to learn its mysteries.
The rooftop of the pink palace must have been under observation — either from the Cabal House or elsewhere — because as soon as Justina climbed into the airship it started to disintegrate.
‘Chegory!’ screamed Olivia. ‘Stop it!’
Her hero rushed forward and grabbed hold of one of the branches. It pulled away. He pulled back, throwing the full strength of his sledgehammer muscles into the contest. The inner wood slid free of its sheathing bark, which crumbled immediately to black flakes in Chegory’s furious grip. The wood waggled away at its leisure.
‘Blood of the Gloat!’ said Idaho. ‘The next wonderworker I see, I kill!’
Justina looked upwards at the sticks scattering in all directions. The timing of the airship’s destruction could surely be no coincidence. The wonder-workers were watching her even now. She thought to shake her fist at the Cabal House — but did no such thing. The gesture was too weak, too puny, and unlikely to be perceived at a distance.
Bereft of ideas entirely, Justina stared out at the Laitemata Harbour and the two ships still steadily disembarking their soldiers. Soon, they would march up Lak Street. They would secure the palace. They would arrest her. And if she fled Downstairs? Why, she would be hunted down, for there was no ultimate refuge there — as many escaped slaves and eloping lovers had discovered to their cost. And if she fled to Zolabrik?
Justina turned.
Zazazolzodanzarzakazolabrik awaited, its waterless wastelands stretching away for league upon league to the north. In vain she scrutinized those barrens, looking for an army. That was her last hope — that the warlord Jal Japone might have sent men south in strength to seize Injiltaprajura while the seizing was good.
But there was no army.
Maybe Justina’s envoy had never got through to Jal Japone. Or maybe Japone declined to come south. Or, more probably — the roadless way was far and the going was rough — the envoy had yet to reach his destination.
‘Still,’ said Justina to herself. ‘I tried.’
Then she felt defeat, for she could think of no further tricks she could try.
As Justina stood there upon the rooftop of the pink palace, she realized that even then — right at that very moment — there would still be people in and around Injiltaprajura who were catching fish, drawing water, cooking meals, washing dishes, collecting coconuts or weeding market gardens. And if she died that day, why, the mundane life of the city would still continue, for all the world as if she had never lived.
Thus Justina endured a vision of the world as it would be when she had died. She would die, her bones would be scattered, her memory desecrated. And still the sun would shine; still the red seas of sunset and the red seas of dawn would break against the shores of Untunchilamon.
Then she knew despair.
She walked to the edge of the rooftop, half-minded to throw herself off.
Then she stopped.
For she remembered.
In that time of despair, Justina remembered a story which had once been told to her by her father, the great Lonstantine. He had told her of an experiment once performed by a half-mad master of experimental philosophy. The man had obtained two rare and wonderful bottles made of glass, and had orientated these transparent vessels so they lay with their butts presented to the light and their throats in dark shadows, the darkness being enhanced by the careful arrangement of black cloth. Into each of these bottles the experimenter introduced an insect.
Into one bottle went a bumble bee.
Into the other, a fly.
The fly was too stupid to try to think its way out of the bottle. Instead, it flew around at random, blatting this way and that in the manner of flies — and in moments had triced its way out to freedom by inevitable accident.
The bee, on the other hand, was intelligent to know that escape lay toward the light. So to the light it went, only to find its way blocked by an impervious transparency. It struggled valorously, for it was obstinate in courage. But in the end it died, betrayed by its intelligence.
The moral of the story?
Many morals could be drawn, some of them concerning the dangers of intelligence. But to Lonstantine Thrug — he was, we must remember, a Yudonic Knight, and therefore inclined toward simplicities — the moral was this: Never despair!
‘Well,’ said Olivia Qasaba, ‘what are we going to do now?’
‘We,’ said Justina, ‘are going to retreat into Zolabrik.’ ‘No!’ sa id Chegory, who had a peculiar horror of Untunchilamon’s wasteland des erts.
‘Yes,’ said Justina. ‘We have no other choice.’
‘But why?’ said Chegory. ‘Couldn’t we just — well, surrender?’
A foolish question, this. It required no answer. But Idaho provided one anyway.
‘We can’t surrender,’ said Idaho. ‘For if captured, we might be brainwashed. ’
The Empress Justina shuddered at the thought. Brainwashing, for those unfamiliar with the niceties of political life in the Izdimir Empire, is a particularly hideous form of torture, and all its varieties are almost invariably lethal. Brainwashing can take any of seventeen different forms, the most merciful being the Hovmun Variation in which the much-washed brain is cut from its stem on the second day then fed to the next-of-kin of the deceased or (should next-of-kin be unavailable) to offal pigs bred especially for the purpose.
While Justina was still shuddering, she heard boots pounding up the stairs leading to the roof.
‘Someone’s coming!’ screamed Olivia.
‘We’ve left it too late,’ said Idaho. ‘We can’t escape.’ Then he screamed his battle cry: ‘Wen Endex!’
‘Julie!’ said Justina sharply. ‘They might be friends.’ ‘No,’ said Idaho sternly. ‘They can’t be. We have no friends left. We are doomed. Our sole remaining privilege is to die with weapons in our hands. Better it is to die thus than to be captured alive. So this is it, then. Our last stand.’
Verily, the doughty Yudonic Knight seemed almost to welcome the crisis. He had endured Justina’s civilized and charitable regime for too long. He wanted war, blood-slaughter battles, violence, glory, death. If only for a moment. Even if his own death were to be consequent upon such indulgences.
‘You,’ said Justina, seizing Pelagius Zozimus and shaking him. ‘Don’t just stand there. Do something!’
‘Do what?’ said Zozimus.
‘You’re a wizard, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Zozimus. ‘A wizard with the power to animate corpses. Do you see any raw material for my work?’
‘Stand ready!’ said Juliet Idaho, bracing himself for combat. ‘I’ll soon give you all the raw material you need.’
Then those coming up the stairs burst out on to the roof.
The corpse-master Uckermark was in the lead, and Idaho almost took off his head with a swordstroke before he saw who it was. Uckermark was carrying a wickerwork cage, and Shabble bobbed bright-shining at Uckermark’s shoulder.
Uckermark’s hard-bitten woman, Yilda of the many conflicts, followed him on to the roof. Then came the bullman Log Jaris and his helpmate Molly.
‘Is there anyone else?’ said Idaho.
‘This is all of us,’ said Uckermark.
‘Well, that doesn’t give me many to choose from,’ said Idaho.
‘What are you talking about?’ said Uckermark.
‘Our wizard friend here requires a corpse,’ said Uckermark, indicating Zozimus. ‘Only by means of such can he unleash his power.’
‘That’s enough!’ said Justina sharply. Then she looked hard at Zozimus. ‘Are you all right?’ she said. ‘You look ill.’
‘I-’
But Zozimus said no more, for he began to Change. He shrivelled and shrank, and he outflourished fur as he shrank. Moments later, where the wizard had been, there was nothing but a wriggling loin cloth. Bro Drumel’s corpse staggered then collapsed. Then a gerbil struggled free from the loin cloth, and sat on its hind legs chittering furiously.
‘Oh!’ said Olivia. ‘A hampster. How cute!’
The gerbil glared at her in fury. Its eyes were bloodshot with berserk fury, and, in its rage, it pawed at the roof like a bull trying to ruck apart a paddock with its hooves. Olivia failed to heed these warning signs. Instead, with one cherishing finger she ventured to stroke the gerbil behind the ears.
The gerbil bit her.
‘Yowl’ said Olivia.
‘Olivia!’ said the Empress Justina. ‘We’ve no time for games! And don’t drop my dragon! Now listen, all of you. We must leave immediately. For Zolabrik.’
‘We must leave, yes,’ said Uckermark. ‘But not for Zolabrik. We’re leaving by air.’
‘Are you blind?’ said Justina. ‘The airship’s destroyed! Look!’
Uckermark laughed.
‘Look yourself,’ said he. ‘Look for Xtokobrokotok.’ Justina resisted the temptation to swear at him. She deigned to look out across the city to the warehouses of Marthandorthan. She located Xtokobrokotok, most notorious of all the buildings in that dockland quarter. On the rooftop, a solitary figure was hauling a tarpaulin from a ‘Oh,’ said Justina in surprise.
Now all was explained. Now she knew why Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin had only worked for half the day at the pink palace, and had never seemed to have much enthusiasm for the work he did there.
‘That’s all very well,’ said Juliet Idaho, observing the gigantic bird’s nest which stood atop Xtokobrokotok, waiting for the wizard Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin to send it whirling into the air. ‘But the Cabal House has destroyed two airships already. They can destroy a third as easily.’
‘Shabble,’ said Uckermark. ‘Now!’
Shabble hummed with excitement as Shabble went bobbing upwards. Then fire flashed forth from Shabble, and the upper storey of the Cabal House exploded into flame.
‘Ouch!’ said Justina.
She did not think Uckermark was being at all wise in persuading Shabble thus to join the wars of humanity. But she had to admit the manoeuvre served the needs of the moment.
When she looked again, Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin had got his bird’s nest into the air, and it was whirling through the sultry sunlight toward them. It rose up, up, up into the air, then whirled downward, almost clipping the glitter dome as its shadow spun across the roof of the pink palace, its substance speaking to the world thus:
Thubber lubber dubber — ffft!
All ducked as the huge thing swept overhead, nearly taking their heads off. It slewed sideways, lurched to an abrupt halt in mid-air, then gyrated backwards until it was spinning in the air directly overhead. Then it descended. Justina grabbed the still-chittering gerbil and dived for safety just before the bird’s nest landed with a hideous grating sound accompanied by an upfling of dust.
‘All aboard!’ cried Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin, looking down from above.
Yilda was already scrambling up the side of the airship. The others followed, the gerbil being passed from hand to hand as Justina was hauled aboard. As the refugees came aboard, they seated themselves in the bottom of the airship like so many fledglings in a huge bird’s next.
‘Hurry up, Julie!’ cried the Empress Justina.
‘But,’ cried Juliet Idaho, who was still standing on the palace roof, ‘we haven’t killed anyone yet!’
‘Julie!’ said Justina. ‘I’m giving you a direct order! Get inside! Now!’
Juliet Idaho scrambled aboard. As he sought for a place to sit, he almost crushed the wickerwork cage which Uckermark had brought aboard.
‘Careful!’ said Uckermark. ‘Don’t sit on that!’
‘Why not?’ said Idaho.
‘Have you no eyes?’ said Uckermark. ‘Look! The Holy Cockroach dwells within.’
Juliet Idaho looked, and saw that it was true.
‘So what?’ said Idaho.
‘Holy is the Cockroach and hallowed is His name,’ intoned Shabble. ‘Accursed are those who would desecrate His presence.’
Then a trifling tongue of flame flickered forth from the quick-dancing Shabble. Juliet Idaho took the hint, and seated himself against the branch-bumpy wall of the flying nest.
‘Where is my cousin?’ said Sken-Pitilkin.
‘Your cousin?’ said Justina.
‘The great lord Zozimus,’ said Sken-Pitilkin.
‘Oh!’ said Justina. ‘You mean your brother. Here he is!’
And she held up the frantically-struggling gerbil.
Sken-Pitilkin could not help himself.
He laughed.
‘Sera — sera — sera — skrik!’ shrilled the gerbil.
‘I think he’s angry,’ said Chegory.
‘I know he’s angry,’ said Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin. ‘But there’s no helping that. Hold on tight! It’s time to fly.’
‘Do you hear that?’ said Justina to her gerbil. ‘We’re going to fly. Don’t be frightened now. You’ll be all right. I’ll take care of you.’
Then she kissed the little thing. The gerbil tried to savage her lips, but she was too quick for it.
Then Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin raised his hands and shouted a Word.
Nothing happened.
Nothing?
A jar toppled from a shelf in the kitchen below. A star exploded in a galaxy five billion luzacs distant. In another cosmos altogether, a horse gave birth to a unicorn. But all of those occurrences may have been pure coincidence.
Again Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin raised his hands.
Again he shouted.
With the greatest appearance of reluctance, the ship began to spin. Slowly, slowly it went. It did not leave the rooftop. But it steadily gathered speed until it was whirling round with a roar of wind.
‘Whoa!’ cried Sken-Pitilkin, outright alarm writ clear across his face.
Then the ship kicked into an upward spiral.
They were off.
And they were leaving just in time, for down below a tsunami was striking Untunchilamon. Up, up it rose, its cataclysmic waters sweeping across the outer reef. It crashed across the lagoon and swamped its way across Island Scimitar. It rushed over and around the island of Jod. Then its fury pounded the embankment of crushed bloodstone and red coral which disciplined the inland border of the Laitemata. Disembarking soldiers screamed in panic or clung to each other in dismay as the tsunami broke over them.
The crashing waters thrashed around the helpless living flesh, buffeted across the embankment, reached the first shacks and boathouses, the first shopstalls and housefronts… and there hesitated, paused, then, realizing they had exhausted their momentum, began to slide back into the Laitemata.
The backsliding waters carried away with them a good three dozen soldiers and a princess, the princess in question being the elegant Sabitha Winolathon Taskin-jathura, she of the noble lineage, the impeccable breeding. Fortunately, she could swim; and the soldiers could swim as well; and when the excitement was over and all the swimmers had been hauled from the water, it was discovered that the damage done by the tsunami amounted to no more than an impromptu bath for one princess (the above mentioned Princess Sabitha) and some three or four dozen soldiers.
For not all tsunamis are equal, and this one (like Nixorjapretzel Rat’s demon) was more unequal than most.
&nbs
p; Your historian regrets the fact that he is unable to conclude this account by providing you with a final scene of cataclysmic destruction, but what happened is what happened, and history cannot be amended merely to spice up a story. So we cannot here have any account of the overthrow of Injiltaprajura, of the bursting of buildings, of the screams of helpless victims staring uphill in horror as the ship-sized monument known as Pearl pounds down upon them, of splattered blood and broken bones and skulls exploding as life and hope are eyeblinked into oblivion.
No, what happened is commonplace — indeed, batho-tic — by comparison. But it is the truth. The wave came, the wave broke, and Injiltaprajura was much the same thereafter, for it was a wave far too small to fit the real dramatic needs of the moment. And Justina Thrug escaped by air from the hooks and claws of justice and (to the best of the historian’s knowledge) was never seen again on Untunchilamon.
Of Untunchilamon and its politics you now know; or, to put it another way, you know as much as your historian can reasonably be expected to convey, given the limitations of his sources, the dictates of mortality and the outrageous price of ink, pens and fooskin. However, one final duty remains, and that is for the historian to clear up a small mystery. How did the Empress Justina swindle the innocent Jean Froissart? You will remember that the Empress set three glasses in a row on a table. That she flip-flopped two at a time. That three such manipulations gave her two inverted glasses and one standing upright. Froissart, challenged to duplicate the feat, failed.
Despite his genius level intellect.
How so?
The reader has already been warned that the answer is bathotic, and so it it. For when we come to the question of conjuring, the interest is all in the illusion; and the explanation of that illusion is necessarily disappointing.
The answer is this:
Justina started off with a row of three glasses, the beakers at the end inverted and the central glass standing upright. When she rearranged the glasses, the Empress inverted the central beaker and let the other two stand upright. Froissart, let loose on this array, thought he was tackling the problem so easily solved by the Empress. Of course he was not. Hence his mind-buckling frustration and his inevitable defeat.
