For Justina Thrug, Artemis Ingalawa and Olivia Qasaba, it was all very strange. First Dardanalti made inscrutable lawyerly excuses and withdrew from the Star Chamber, leaving his apprentice to continue the defence. (Such continuation, involving as it did nothing more than occasionally calling out ‘Objection!’, did not tax the apprentice’s abilities unduly.)
Then, later, there was a series of defections from the courtroom audience; until finally Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek, a patient spectator throughout the proceedings, was called away by one of his aides. After that, Dardanalti reappeared and craved leave to approach the bench. Such leave being granted to him, Dardanalti spoke quietly with Judge Qil, who then announced a recess.
Which left Justina, Ingalawa and Olivia sitting on a hardwood bench in the quiet of the Star Chamber. They could hear, in the distance, lamentations from one of the temples of Hojo Street where mourners were lamenting the demise of some of the victims of Injiltaprajura’s disastrous fire. Then someone began drumming:
Thup-thup-top!
Thup-thup-top…
Guards intervened, and there was a brief flurry of excitement as a youthful drummer was discovered, searched, bloodied then ejected from the court.
But, after that, stasis set in.
As the recess dragged on, some people began to drift away, quitting the pink palace for streets where the smell of ash still had dominance. The diminished audience that remained evinced no enthusiasm for the resumption of the proceedings. Some drew lime leaf and fresh betel nut from intricate silver containers and began to chew, taking advantage of Judge Qil’s absence. (For some reason — the onset of senility, perhaps? — that judge had lately developed a prejudice against people chewing and spitting in his court.) Others gnawed on sugarcane or cleansed their tongues with pandanus.
Then Dardanalti returned to the Star Chamber.
Judge Oil did not.
‘We have it,’ said Dardanalti, with a smile savage in its triumph.
‘Have what?’ said Justina.
‘This!’ said Dardanalti, waving a parchment. ‘Your pardon.’
‘My-my-’
‘Pardon, yes. It covers the Qasaba girl, too.’
‘Me?’ said Olivia.
‘You,’ said Dardanalti.
‘And me?’ said Ingalawa sharply.
‘But of course,’ said Dardanalti.
Then he smiled again, and waited for acclamation.
Instead:
‘I’m thirsty,’ said Justina.
She was, too. Her relief of her bladder had lately been at the pleasure of her guards; and, bitterly resenting such humiliation, she had chosen dehydration as the most honourable course. Hence she lacked the energy for jubilation.
‘Are we — are we really free?’ said Olivia.
‘You are,’ said Dardanalti.
Whereupon Olivia began to weep. Throughout her trial she had been a brave Ashdan, confronting her death with a pose which mimicked equanimity. But now, released from the responsibility of denying her captors, she was but a slip of a girl, exhausted by worry and fear.
Artemis Ingalawa did not chide her niece, but comforted her as she collapsed in grief. Ingalawa could have done with some comforting herself, for she was over-tired, exhausted by the ordeal of long wanderings Downstairs followed by abrupt arrest, brusque imprisonment and the onset of an unpleasant trial. Ingalawa had long thought of Untunchilamon as her true home, but now she wished she could be gone, back to the forests of Ashmolea, land of limestone and cultivated sophistication.
The Empress Justina also wished to be gone. To Wen Endex, land of tumbling waterfalls and swampland rivers, of dunes where the seastorm spume writhes in mists on the wintry wind, of castellated strongholds armoured in ice, of fur-coat weather and parrot-bat feasts.
But now was not the time to indulge in nostalgia.
She had to get a grip on herself: and on the situation.
‘Where is this new wazir?’ said Justina.
‘He chooses to reside in Moremo for the moment,’ said Dardanalti.
‘In Moremo!’ said the Empress, startled.
‘He gives you full use of his pink palace in the meantime,’ said Dardanalti. ‘You are his guest.’
‘His guest?’ said Justina. ‘Or his captive?’
‘His guest,’ said Dardanalti. ‘His most honoured guest. My lady, there is much of which we must talk.’
‘Must we?’ said Justina. ‘Must we really? Now? Or can it wait?’
‘It could wait till the morrow,’ conceded Dardanalti.
‘Then let it,’ said Justina. ‘For I am wearied unto death.’
The Empress Justina had a certain appetite for histrionics, but in this instance she spoke nothing less than the truth. Nevertheless, she had some business to do before she could rest.
‘Artemis,’ said Justina.
‘What do you want?’ said Ingalawa.
‘We need to retrieve the skavamareen which Master Ek is holding in the Temple of Torture. The Crab will not be pleased if its delivery is delayed.’
‘I will go to the Temple and see to its release immediately,’ said Ingalawa.
Ingalawa knew, as did Justina, that there was scarcely one chance in ten thousand that Master Ek would hand over the ‘skavamareen’. It was far more likely that the High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral guessed this ancient instrument to be an organic rectifier. And that, in hope of making himself immortal, he meant to hold on to it.
But it was worth trying the bluff.
After all, they were so close to triumph.
They had an organic rectifier.
All they needed now was to take the thing to Jod.
Then the Crab could be converted to human form, and in gratitude the Crab would surely exert all its Powers to solve their problems.
Artemis Ingalawa departed on her mission, all signs of fatigue successfully subdued.
‘I want to go home,’ said Olivia, who as yet was unaware of the doom which had befallen the Dromdanjerie.
So then the poor child had to be told (by Dardanalti) that Injiltaprajura’s bedlam had been burnt to the ground; and that her father, the eminent Ashdan therapist Jon Qasaba, was missing, believed dead.
This final tragedy devastated the Ashdan lass. Her father! Dead? Impossible. She could not believe he was dead for he was her father, her very own, and death was something which only happened to other people’s fathers. But certainly he was missing. And poor Chegory was trapped leagues underground with that huge therapist thing, a monster worse than a spider, a shark and an octopus rolled into one.
Olivia broke down and wept.
The Empress Justina took Olivia in hand. Then the Empress led the child to the imperial quarters. Two soldiers were standing on guard outside the door. For years these men had given their loyalty to Justina. But now?
‘Whom do you obey?’ said Justina.
Assaulting them with the question just so. Bluntly. No preliminary questions, no enquiries after their meals and pay, no smiles or hellos. The strain was telling on the Empress, hence the deterioration in her manners.
‘We obey Manthandros Trasilika, the duly authorized wazir sent to take command of Untunchilamon,’ said one of the soldiers stiffly.
‘And me?’ said Justina.
‘In so far as a wazir’s guest can command a soldier.’
‘A guest, am I?’ said Justina, her temper rising.
‘So I am told,’ said the soldier. ‘I ask no more. I am a soldier. I exist only to obey.’
Justina had a thing or two she wanted to say in reply to that. But one glance at Olivia told the Empress this was no time to make a scene. The child needed safety, comfort, the assurance of some kind of peace, at least for the moment. So, without another word to either of the soldiers, Justina led Olivia into the imperial quarters.
They had been looted.
Some diligent staff members had endeavoured to clean up the mess, and had done so to the best of their ability. But still the evidence of ruin was everywhere. A great many things had been wantonly torn and destroyed, including much which was beautiful. That made Justina furious. Theft she could understand, but not vandalism.
An unaccustomed trembling afflicted the imperial limbs as Justina went into her bedroom and realized what had been done there. The place had been cleaned and the bed linen changed, but a certain stench still lingered.
‘How dare they!’ said Justina.
Olivia picked at a shattered mirror which threw back their faces in pieces. Olivia pried away one of her own eyes. Then threw down the shattering of mirror-glass.
‘There’s a spare bedroom,’ said Justina, opening another door. ‘In here.’
A drift of chicken feathers stirred around the imperial feet as Justina entered that chamber. The feathers indicated that one of Theodora’s chickens (or more than one?) had met an untimely end in this room. On the spare bed, the Princess Sabitha was curled up, comfortably devoting herself to digestion. As the Empress entered, the princess woke, stretched, and yawned. She looked very, very pleased with herself.
‘I don’t believe you’ve met,’ said Justina. ‘Olivia, this is Sabitha Winolathon Taskinjathrua. Sabitha, meet Olivia.’
So saying, the Empress removed the Princess Sabitha from the imperial bed and conveyed her to Olivia’s arms. Considering the heat of the day, one might think that the least desirable of all possible presents would be an idiothermous cat stuffed with chicken. But Olivia took the Princess Sabitha into her arms, hugged her, and was comforted by the possession of this new friend.
‘If you want to lie down on the bed,’ said Justina, ‘feel free. I have to check my study.’
Olivia did lie down, and Justina did check the study. It was strangely untouched, probably because it was the poorest room in the imperial quarters. But something was missing. The dragon. The dragon Untunchilamon. There was no sign of that fingerlength beast. Instead, the dragon’s nest of cat’s fur and feather-fluff held an ovoid opal, a thing curiously flecked with bits of black.
‘A present?’ said Justina.
Perhaps someone had stolen her dragon and had left the bright-brilliant opal as a guilt offering.
Justina bent closer to appraise the gem. Then saw the bits of black were not flecks at all. They were ants! But why would ants attack an inedible stone? Out of madness?
‘Good gracious!’ said Justina. ‘It must be an egg!’
And a long-lost memory stirred. A traumatic memory from her girlhood when she had tried to raise a chrysalis to its butterfly glory. That had been in Wen Endex at the height of summer. (Yes, Wen Endex had a summer, and fierce heat to go with it, for all that Justina chose to remember it as a place of snowbound winter.) Ants had laid siege to the helpless pupa, and the butterfly had died unborn. Had died a hideous, disgusting death which had left Justina red-eyed and weeping.
‘Such was your triumph,’ said Justina, addressing the ants in a stern and terrible voice. ‘Such was your triumph when I was but a child. But you behold me now as a woman!’
Then she tried to blow the ants away:
Wwwwwssssh!
A dozen nest-feathers kicked to the air then snow-drifted down. But the ants blew away not, but clung tight to the sheer and the smooth of the egg. In truth a mighty feat! Indeed, the obstinacy of ants in the face of winds natural or otherwise is one of the very wonders of the universe.
‘You can’t win, you know,’ said Justina.
And was tempted to crush the ants out of hand, obliterating their paltry lives entirely. She resisted the temptation, though not without a struggle.
‘But you will be displaced,’ said she.
Indeed.
But, once displaced, the ants could always come back again.
‘A problem,’ said Justina, wondering how to guard the egg till it hatched.
She could always call in her soldiers. Yes, and have them stand watch by sun and moon alike, guarding the egg with chopsticks and stabs until at last and at length it hatched. But such trifling with masculine pride might well provoke mutiny.
Besides…
They might say the ‘wazir’s guest’ had no right to order them to such duties.
‘And, in any case…
Maybe the egg would never hatch.
With more than a touch of disappointment, Justina realized the egg was most unlikely to be viable. For the bright-brave dragon Untunchilamon was unique, created ab initio by a demon. She lacked a mate hence the egg could not have been fertilized.
‘Yet,’ said Justina, ‘parthenogenesis is always a possibility.’
Was she deluding herself?
Perhaps.
But:
‘Everyone deserves a chance,’ said Justina firmly.
So saying, the Empress took a feather and whisked away the ants. Then treasured the egg on to a piece of blotting paper which she placed upon a saucer. She put the saucer atop the rocky island which rose from the limpid depths of her fish tank. That would surely secure the egg from assault by ants.
‘But,’ said Justina, voicing that single word as she contemplated the exquisite vulnerability of the egg.
Yes. But. Attack might still come from the air. Who knows? Supposing the egg was hatched by night? Supposing mosquitoes attacked the tiny egg-wet hatchling? The Empress had a horrifying vision of a helpless newborn dragonet being monstered by a dozen or more merciless vampiric insects.
‘The poor thing would perish!’ said Justina.
That she talked so persistently to herself on this occasion is no mystery. Her position was one of exquisite loneliness, for she could trust few and bare her soul to no-one. Such are the burdens of imperial power, though we should not necessarily pity the powerful on that account; after all, many a beggar endures deprivations of the soul equally as agonizing, yet without enjoying any of the many concomitant consolations.
(A pedant might argue that the Empress had lost power entirely. But this would be a misreading. She still commanded the loyalty of certain powerful people, hence would be a source of hope for her allies and a danger to her enemies until she was very definitely dead.)
‘Well,’ said Justina. ‘Mosquitoes are no match for me!’
Then she went to her sewing room and sought out netting of the finest mesh, impervious to ants and mosquitoes alike. This she stretched across the top of her fish tank, anchoring the fabric with four of her finest soljamimpambagoya rocks. She took the greatest of pleasure imaginable in this work of her hands, simple work soon brought to decisive ends; in work she found a welcome forgetting of the woes of the world and the urgencies of the moment.
Then she sat down to watch the egg.
‘A beautiful thing,’ said she.
It was.
‘And to think!’ said she. ‘The mother delinquent! The egg besieged by ants!’
Then it occurred to her that some mishap might have befallen the mother. The valorous Untunchilamon might be dead. If so, then this egg might be the sole hope of an entire race.
‘Oh my!’ said Justina, momentarily overwhelmed by her awesome responsibility. ‘A new species! And this its sole chance of posterity!’
She was so overcome that she thought it best to take a little wine to settle her nerves. This she did, though whether her recourse to such a potent drug was wise is an open question. True, the Empress Justina had the statutory authority to order a Prescription for any or all. And it must be admitted that she had the most impeccable of academic qualifications to back such authority, since she was the proud possessor of a degree from the College of Medicine. Nevertheless, physicians tend to frown upon the self-prescription of controlled drugs, and with reason; for the abuse of such liberty is all too tempting, and can rapidly lead to the torments of addiction.
However, whether the Empress was wise or unwise to indulge herself with wine, it must be admitted that a modest quantity of this smooth-flowing fluid helped soothe her nerves remarkably. A deep and pervading calm possessed her as she gazed upon the opalescent egg and the shimmer-drift of the dragonfire fish which inhabited the aquarium. Without, perhaps the sky was falling; or perhaps it happened that the very world was ending. But here Justina enjoyed the meditations of the moment, that moment which, at any given time, is all the life we have to live.
After a second dole of such medicine, the Empress went to see whether Olivia was all right. She found the young Ashdan lass sound asleep in the imperial bed with the Princess Sabitha in her arms. That compliant creature of fur looked up as Justina entered.
‘You haven’t by chance seen a dragon?’ said Justina.
The Princess Sabitha yawned.
‘A small dragon,’ persisted the Empress. ‘A dragon no longer than this finger of mine.’
So saying, Justina Thrug waggled that appendage at the self-indulgent young royal. The Princess Sabitha smirked, but said nothing. And, further interrogation proving equally as fruitless, the Empress Justina laid herself down beside Olivia Qasaba and joined her in sleep.
Justina did not wake until Artemis Ingalawa returned with the news.
The bad news.
Ingalawa had visited the Temple of Torture to demand the return of the ‘skavamareen’ which Master Ek had confiscated. And she had been decisively rebuffed.