Naturally, there was consternation in Injiltaprajura when it was known that the Crab had declared itself wazir. But, in the days that followed, remarkably little changed. Decrees were published in the name of the Crab, saying that Justina Thrug should remain in the pink palace for the time being as its custodian; that religious freedom should prevail as before; and that all civil and uncivil servants were temporarily confirmed in their positions.
Thus consternation was soon replaced with disappointment; for the mob saw that there were to be no wholesale torturing or executions, no mass arrests or persecutions, no opportunities for looting and rampage; and a sense of anticlimax prevailed in the city.
Nevertheless, while there was no, major public drama in those days, there were private dramas in plenty, as there always are in any great city. And, turning our attention to one of those dramas, let us record the following:
This was the number: 011010100001.
And this was the demand:
One thousand dragons.
And the lever was a page of the Injiltaprajuradariski, The Secret History of Injiltaprajura, a work now gaining a certain underground fame on Untunchilamon.
Bro Drumel read the page through yet one more time. Was it really as dangerous as he had thought at first blush? He was inclined to think that it was.
So what was he to do?
Pay the thousand dragons?
He could. But doubtless there would be further demands to follow the first. For such was the nature of blackmail. So what was the alternative? Hunt down the blackmailer and kill him. Obviously. But much easier said than done. In fact, it might well prove impossible.
Bro Drumel, captain of Justina’s palace guard and Governor of Moremo Maximum Security Prison, began to work on his fingernails, easing the overgrowth of skin back from each moon in turn. While his skin was Janjuladoola grey, the fingernails themselves were a blood*flushed pink. Pink nails. White moons. He found them fascinating. And beautiful. Indeed, Bro Drumel had little eye for the sculptural masses which make up the body as a whole. What delighted him was the elegant finishing touches. Fingernails. Earlobes. Eyes.
Those oh-so-elegant finishing touches which so delight the torturer.
Bro Drumel looked out of the window of his office in Moremo. He closed his right eye experimentally. And, as he had expected, the view dimmed.
Year by year, the colours perceived by his left eye had slowly been growing darker and dimmer. He supposed that in the fullness of titne he would go blind in that eye. He could live with that. He could face the thought of such idiosyncratic failures of the flesh, and the inevitable generalized degeneration of old age which must one day follow.
But the horror that would befall him if he became a victim of the rage of Aldarch Three…
Bro Drumel squeezed both eyes tight, trying to close out light, thought and vision together.
If he did yield to blackmail, his persecutor would hand certain documentation to Master Ek, High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral. Then certain doom would in due course befall him. So what should he do?
Bro Drumel fought with panic.
And, finally, decided to go and see the Empress Justina.
The Empress had been restored to the pink palace five days earlier, after her release had been ordered in the name of the Crab. Since she had the Crab’s favour, perhaps — just possibly — she could give Bro Drumel some help. Or reassurance at least.
But, first, he should shave.
Soon Bro Drumel was at work, soothing the steel across his skin. He paused in his work. Slid two fingers to the carotid artery which lay beside his windpipe. The skin was hot. Hot and slightly sweaty. The pulse beat beneath his fingers. A rhythm strong and slow. He made his resolution. Both jugular veins and both carotids and the windpipe too. A single sweep. A grin.
That’s all it takes.
He would do it.
Yes, if torture threatened, he would do it.
And, now that he knew he would never be taken alive, Bro Drumel felt stronger, calmer and more confident. The game was not over yet. And, while the game yet ran, life was still sweet, and had many, many satisfactions.
Shortly, a clean-shaven Bro Drumel was at the pink palace and deep in conference with the Empress Justina and Juliet Idaho. Both the Empress and her untame Yudonic Knight examined the blackmail documents with interest.
What particularly attracted their attention was the page from the Injiltaprajuradariski which had been sent to Bro Drumel. The page was a sheet of ricepaper covered with scorpioned Ashdan orthography scripted in purple ink. The words were in Slandolin, the literary language of Ashmolea South. While neither Justina nor Idaho could read this tongue, both by now could recognize a text written in that argot.
‘You’ve had it translated, I take it,’ said Justina.
‘I have,’ said Bro Drumel.
‘What does it say?’said Idaho.
‘It… well…’
‘Out with it!’ said Idaho, harshening his voice.
‘Peace, Julie,’ said Justina, laying one heavy and sweaty hand upon Idaho’s wrist.
‘But we must know what it says,’ growled Idaho. ‘Or must we call in our own translator?’
‘It… it tells of a… a relationship between myself and our Empress,’ said Bro Drumel. ‘My blackmailer threatens to send a duplicate copy to Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek.’
‘And what if he does?’ said Justina.
‘It… this would damn me in the eyes of Aldarch Three,’ said Bro Drumel.
The Empress snorted.
‘You’re damned already if that’s all it takes for damnation,’ said she. ‘Your close connection with me is no secret. Come! You helped Varazchavardan when he sought to coup against me. If I remember correctly, your help was so strenuous I had need to hit you with my handbag.’
‘Yes,’ said Drumel, remembering the shattering impact of that blow.
‘So this blackmailing is no more than a nonsense,’ said Justina briskly. ‘But I would dearly like to catch the blackmailer, for capture might give us a clue to the source of the Injiltaprajuradariski, The Secret History of Injiltaprajura. You know it, I take it.’
‘Well…’
‘You must have heard rumours,’ said Justina.
‘A few,’ said Bro Drumel cautiously.
‘Come, let’s not be so close-mouthed,’ said Justina. ‘It’s no secret. Untunchilamon’s a place too small for that. Someone has written a Secret History. We know not who. What we do know is that pieces of it are scattered all over Injiltaprajura. The Cabal House had a piece.’
‘How do you know that?’ said Bro Drumel.
‘The knowledge came to me by powers which are mine to possess but not to discuss,’ said Justina.
Of course, she knew because a thief in her pay had stolen the purple-scripted document in question, thieving it from the Cabal House under the noses of the resident wonder-workers.
‘Also,’ said Idaho, ‘Masker Ek has a piece of that document.’
‘You read his mind also?’ said Drumel to Justina.
‘I have my methods,’ said Justina severely.
She had recently debriefed young Nixorjapretzel Rat, her liaison officer, and it was in the course of this debriefing that she had learnt something of Master Ek’s interest in the Secret History.
‘So you see our interest,’ said Idaho. ‘We must find this Secret History.’
‘Actually, I don’t,’ said Drumel, now puzzled. ‘You tell me no document matters since nothing is secret. If nothing is secret, what matters this history? First you tell me not to worry about it, that blackmailing makes things no worse. Then you say we have to find the blackmailer.’
Justina Thrug and Juliet Idaho glanced at each other.
‘Either you trust me or you don’t,’ said Bro Drumel.
‘We don’t,’ said Idaho.
‘But we could,’ said Justina. ‘Oaths solemn enough might bind you.’
Bro Drumel realized he had to make a choice. Swear binding oaths of loyalty to the Empress and throw in his lot with hers. Or trust to the justice of the Izdimir Empire.
Drumel had no faith in justice.
Justina was not of the Janjuladoola race. She was a hated foreigner from Wen Endex. But seven years of close association with the family Thrug had taught Bro Drumel that the word of a Thrug could be trusted. If he made a common cause with Justina, the alliance would last till the point of death; the Empress would not betray him.
‘I will swear myself to your service,’ said he.
Then did, a process which took some time, as no solemn oath can be sworn in Janjuladoola without the expenditure of at least a thousand words.
Once Bro Drumel had pledged his fealty to the Thrug, Justina revealed the truth.
‘There is more to this Secret History than a recital of common fact,’ said she.
‘Much more,’ said Juliet Idaho.
‘Julie,’ said Justina, again laying her hand on Idaho’s wrist. ‘This is my story.’
‘My lady,’ said Idaho, acknowledging the rebuke.
And Justina continued:
‘The Secret History also speaks of something truly exceptional. An immortality machine. An organic rectifier, so called. We have seen fragments which tell us something of this organic rectifier. That it exists. That it can grant humans the gift of immortal life. That it can change female form to male. Or vice versa. That it could make a human of a Crab.’
Justina paused.
‘And… and where is this machine?’ said Bro Drumel. ‘It must be Downstairs, surely.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Justina. ‘But where are we to look? And what would we be looking for? That we know not. We suspect that the Secret History has much, much more to say about this organic rectifier. What it looks like, where it hides, how to use it. We know your blackmailer came into possession of a fragment of the Secret History. The blackmailer may have the whole. So let us catch the blackmailer.’
‘You… you say the organic rectifier could change Crab to human,’ said Bro Drumel. ‘Is this something the Crab would desire?’
‘It is,’ said Justina. ‘I have discussed it with the Crab’s ambassadors.’
She had no need to specify the names of those ambassadors, for all Injiltaprajura knew the Crab’s official representatives to be Chegory Guy and Olivia Qasaba.
‘And?’ said Drumel.
‘And the Crab would welcome a human form,’ said Justina. ‘If we provide it with such, it guarantees the safety of Injiltaprajura for ever.’
‘You mean it won’t if we don’t?’ said Drumel.
‘It is no secret that the Crab is too inhuman to demonstrate a sustained interest in human politics,’ said Justina. ‘It rules Injiltaprajura now, but it does so at a whim. It could lose interest in our island’s fate as early as tomorrow.’
Bro Drumel could not help himself. He shuddered.
‘So,’ continued Justina briskly, ‘we have no time to lose. We must find the blackmailer, locate the Secret History, discover the truth about the organic rectifier, find that device if it is anywhere within finding range, take it to the Crab and win our safety.’
‘After using it ourselves,’ said Juliet Idaho.
‘For what?’ said Bro Drumel. ‘To become Crab ourselves?’
‘No,’ said Idaho. ‘To become immortal. Weren’t you listening?’
‘It… it’s rather a lot to take in at once. Have I got this right? You say — what? That Ek has some of this Secret History?’
‘Yes,’said Justina.
‘And the Cabal House?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then… do they know of this… this organic contraption?’
‘The Cabal House has most definitely seen written mention of the organic rectifier,’ said Justina. ‘They may know more of it than we do. Our spies are trying to find out. As for Master Ek, he has a part of the Injiltaprajuradariski in his possession, and may know more than we would like him to know.’
‘So,’ said Idaho. ‘Enough blathering. Let’s see how your blackmailer plans to get money off you.’
The three then studied the blackmailer’s written demands.
‘As you see,’ said Drumel, ‘my blackmailer says I must pay a thousand dragons into this numbered account at theN’barta.’
‘N’barta?’ said Juliet Idaho.
‘The Narapatorpabarta Bank,’ said the Empress Justina.
‘Indeed, my lady,’ said Bro Drumel. ‘The same.’
‘And what was that other thing you called it?’ said Idaho.
‘The N’barta,’ said the Empress patiently.
Idaho’s ignorance came as no surprise to the well-fleshed Justina. For a start, Idaho was a xenophobe who entered as little as possible into the life of Injiltaprajura. The Janjuladoola people were not the only ones capable of entertaining violent prejudices; and Idaho was as much a racist as the most bigoted son of Obooloo. Furthermore, Juliet Idaho was a stereotypical Yudonic Knight: which meant, amongst other things, that he was a financial simpleton. He would have nothing to do with banks, bank accounts, stockbrokers, shares, bonds, unit trusts or the future market; he drew his pay in bronze and gold and protected himself against all possibility of theft by spending it promptly in forthright debauch.
‘So,’ said Idaho slowly, ‘you pay to a number.’
‘A numbered account,’ agreed Bro Drumel.
‘But the account has a human attached to it, does it not?’ said Idaho.
‘Well,’ said Drumel hesitantly, ‘as I understand it-’
‘It does not,’ said the Empress crisply.
‘But it must!’ said Idaho. ‘Or how does the owner get at the cash? That’s the thing with banks, isn’t it? I’m not an expert, but as I understand it, money put into a bank account is not meant as a gift to a bank.’
‘The bank has a barrel,’ said Justina, who knew this system well. ‘Within the barrel, a thousand envelopes.
Each envelope sealed. Each envelope holds two numbers. Each number unique, and each in length at least a dozen digits. You wish an account? Very well! You lay down ten dragons-’
‘Ten!’ said Idaho, scandalized.
‘Ten,’affirmed Justina.
‘Let me guess,’ said Idaho. ‘It’s a lucky dip.’
‘Right,’ said Justina. ‘Ten dragons, one envelope.’
‘I see,’ muttered Idaho. ‘A bloody banker’s trick, isn’t it? Nobod y knows who’s working which numbers.’ ‘Exactly,’ said Justina.
And watched Idaho’s face. He was still puzzling through these revelations, trying to work out the necessary implications and ramifications. Justina had every confidence that he’d sort it out in his own good time, but Bro Drumel, not realizing the reason for her silence, intruded without invitation:
‘One number you bank with. You see? But both you must have to withdraw. Both you must have as well to know the account’s balance. They’ve master ledgers, you see, all made up with numbers in twins.’
Justina was afraid this information overload would draw a roar of outraged incomprehension from the irascible Idaho. But the Yudonic Knight was sharp today, he was on form indeed:
‘So our bright friend Blackmail, he sends Drumel one number. So Drumel goes to the bank. A thousand dragons he gives to the bank. They look up their ledgers with numbers in twins. They write down the dragons by the side of the twin. Then bright spark Blackmail, in he comes the next day with numbers in doubles. Both numbers he gives to the bank, and the dragons they give him.’
‘Why,’ said Bro Drumel, amazed at such uncharacteristic penetration on the part of the battleman Idaho. ‘A single cast, yet your hook finds its fish.’
‘Yes,’ said Idaho. ‘And we find us friend Blackmail as well. Easy, isn’t it? He’s now but a number to us and the bank. But flesh he must have to cash numbers for dragons. He can’t come as a ghost, can he?’
‘There are ways and means,’ said Justina darkly.
‘But we could try,’ said Bro Drumel, keen to catch friend Blackmail if there was one chance in a thousand of doing it.
‘What do you mean, try?’ said Idaho, a touch of outrage at work in his voice. ‘It’s a sure thing, isn’t it?’ ‘Not,’ said Justina, ‘if ou r blackmailing friend leaves his deposits untouched till the island ha s fallen to Aldarch the Third.’
‘Then let’s grab in quick,’ said Idaho. ‘Grab the records, see what’s there to find.’
‘It’s just numbers,’ said Bro Drumel, unable to suppress his exasperation. ‘Just numbers, that’s all!’
How could he get it through to this big lunk of a headlopper? A raid on the bank would give them numbers, no more. No name, no address, no identikit, nothing.
‘Listen, sklork,’ sasid Idaho, edging his words with murder. ‘I’m a killer, okay, but I’ve brains for brains, not dogshit. Understand?’
‘Dogshit!’ said the Empress Justina, pretending to be shocked and scandalized.
‘My lady,’ said Idaho, starting to get heated. ‘My apologies. But I won’t be patronized by this — this Janjuladoola thing!’
‘He does have a point, Julie my darling,’ said Justina gently. ‘We would win but numbers if we won with a raid.’
‘Aye,’ said Idaho. ‘And what are numbers but history, if money’s at stake? No doubt they’ll have dates with their ledgers. A date for the account’s genesis, for example.’
‘No,’ said Bro Drumel, pleased to win yet another point off this uncouth uitlander who so obviously had dogshit for brains, yet fearing that the loss of too many such points might make that same uitlander run amok in a berserker fury. ‘The accounts are undated, for who knows when they’re bought? They come from a barrel, remember. All envelopes jumbled. A choice of a thousand.’
‘Privacy perfect,’ said Justina in agreement.
‘Yes,’ said Idaho, reluctantly conceding the point. ‘But dates they’ll have for other things. Surely. Not when the account was opened, perhaps. But money gone in and money gone out. All signed for and dated. It has to be! Not by the customer, maybe, but their own staff must sign when they play with the gold. A banker’s as much a thief as the next man, is he not?’
‘Well,’ said Bro Drumel, annoyed to find that there was a certain amount of good sense to this. ‘That’s all very well, but-’
‘It’s a start,’ said Justina decisively. ‘We’ll get on to the bank this instant.’
‘But,’ protested Drumel, ‘if all we can learn is deposits, disbursements and dates…’
His voice trailed away as he began to understand the implications. Once they had the history of the blackmailer’s account, complete with the current balance and dates for all deposits and any disbursements, they would have a pattern on which they could exert their intelligence.
A slim hope indeed, but far better than none.
‘There is also something else we could try,’ said Idaho. ‘What?’ said Justina.
Then listened in silence as Idaho explained.
‘Why, Julie!’ said Justina in amazement. ‘That’s a brilliant idea! Why didn’t I think of that?’
In truth, Idaho’s idea was so good that even Bro Drumel felt compelled to congratulate him.
Their meeting was then effectively at an end, for all business had been dealt with. But Bro Drumel was not prepared to depart without asking one last question.
‘My lady,’ said Drumel. ‘Is the Crab… has the Crab really chosen to be wazir? Or is it…?’
‘The Crab is very much wazir,’ said the Empress Justina decisively. ‘Believe me, Brody. I’d never lie to you.’
Thus spoke the Empress. And Bro Drumel believed the Thrug, and was comforted by her blatant lie.
The truth was quite another matter entirely.
The truth was that Chegory Guy and Olivia Qasaba had dared a desperate bluff, claiming that the Crab had declared itself wazir when in point of fact it had done no such thing.
Each day, a great many state papers were carried across the harbour bridge to the island of Jod; and each day a stream of orders, commands, declarations and petitions were returned from that island. But the Crab played no part in this two-way flow. Instead, Injiltaprajura was effectively been ruled by the young Chegory Guy and the even younger Olivia Qasaba.
With, it must be admitted, a little help from the wizards Pelagius Zozimus and Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin, a certain amount of assistance from the analytical engineer Ivan Pokrov and the algorithmist Artemis Ingalawa, and daily advice from the Empress Justina herself.
Were this history to adopt the style of Greven Jing, it might say something like this:
‘So far, the innocent citizens of Injiltaprajura had no idea that power had been seized by two members of the dreaded drumming cult. But they would find out. Soon enough. For, nightly, the drums beat on the island of Jod, competing with the slabender frogs for the dominance of the night. And the hellish rhythms of the drums spoke of fear; and death; and torture; and things far worse still yet to come.’
But this is a history, therefore it must avoid such artificial hysteria wherever possible. Let the truth be told. While Chegory Guy and Olivia Qasaba are known to have associated with ‘drummers’ from time to time, there is no evidence to show or suggest that they actually engaged in ‘drumming’ themselves. Even though Olivia once gave the Crab a drum of its own, there is no evidence to suggest that she used it herself (or that the Crab employed the instrument, though it did not reject the gift).
Besides, the fear, death and torture which at that time threatened so many good citizens of Injiltaprajura owned nothing whatsoever to the fringe cult of ‘drumming’, but stemmed instead from the nature of the main stream political struggle.
The historian apologizes to the reader for so stressing a point which has perhaps been adequately made earlier; but the nature of the final days of the rule of the Family Thrug has been so confused by the agitated fictionalizing of those who make a living from sensationalizing ‘cults’ and ‘cultists’ that the historian feels the point needs to be made yet again.
Another thing must be made clear:
While Chegory Guy and Olivia Qasaba played a vital role in the politics of that time and place, their roles owed everything to their association with the Crab, and nothing whatsoever to the cult of ‘drumming’; and the fact that the Crab allowed Chegory and Olivia to issue imperial decrees in the Crab’s name should not be allowed to obscure the fact that all the decisions made by those two infatuated children were largely influenced and controlled by the constant advice they received from the responsible adults on whose good counsel they relied and depended.
Now this has been clarified:
Read on!
If you dare!