That evening, as guests began to gather for the banquet, Olivia served glasses of sherbet on the balcony of the palace. This was rightly a job for a slave; but Justina’s residence was so understaffed as a consequence of the recent alarums that it barely functioned even with the help of pressganged labourers such as Olivia.
The young Qasaba girl did not object to her duties. Everyone was polite to her; or else ignored her, which at least was painless. She overheard a great deal of a great many fascinating conversations, and was not so overworked that she was unable to enjoy the view.
The view!
From the balcony, Olivia could see right across the rooftops of portside Injiltaprajura, across the Laitemata and the island of Jod, across Scimitar and the reefs beyond, and then out across the almost limitless sea.
The sea she studied little, for one eyeful is much like the next. Rather, it was the cityscape which attracted her attention in her idle moments. She was amazed to see how fast rebuilding was proceeding.
While studying the fruits of this enterprise, Olivia was surprised to notice a tarpaulin atop Xtokobrokotok. She had thought Marthandorthan had survived the dragon riots intact; but maybe fire had burnt away a part of the roof of Shabble’s warehouse. Or perhaps something was going on atop that roof, and the tarpaulin was there to shelter a secret rite of the Cult of the Holy Cockroach from infidel eyes.
While thinking this, Olivia saw something bright-flashing in the air above Xtokobrokotok. It was Shabble, spinning in a sun-dance which defied sunset.
Despite such defiance, the seasuck swallowed the sun; and the guests on the balcony made their way inside to the Grand Hall where the banquet was to take place. Unfortunately, like much of the palace, the Grand Hall had suffered thanks to riot and sundry insurrections. For instance, its marvellous glass chandeliers had been smashed beyond repair, and could not easily be replaced since there were no glassworkers of the requisite calibre on Untunchilamon. Indeed, there were no glassworkers at all on that island; and the chandeliers had been imported years before from Wen Endex, to which place they had probably come by way of trade, their ultimate origin doubtless being with the ogres of the Qinjoks.
Olivia had a good idea of what would happen at the banquet, for Chegory had told her all about his own experience of such ordeals. Thanks to Chegory’s accounts of the daunting glamour of the waiters and the intricate demands of protocol, Olivia was well prepared.
But…
If only Chegory could have been there to go with her!
Instead, he was trapped Downstairs with that horrible therapist thing.
If only they could rescue him!
But they couldn’t, not without the help of the Crab.
The only other way to get Chegory back would be to take prisoners to the therapist. But that was hardly possible, since at least two of those prisoners had sailed away. Yes, Guest Gulkan and Thayer Levant, gone from Injiltaprajura for good for all anyone knew. That still left the two wizards, but…
There was no catching the wizards.
But if only…
Olivia, in her innocence, imagined all would be set to rights if only she could be reunited with Chegory. The Ashdan lass still had a touching faith in the redemptive powers of love; and she lamented Chegory’s absence most bitterly. Lament, however, did not stop her from looking around at the assembling guests with a very lively curiosity.
Like many others, Olivia Qasaba’s greatest interest was in the priest who was doomed to endure the test by ordeal that very night. To her surprise, he looked most unhappy about it.
Was Jean Froissart truly unhappy?
Or did Olivia misread his expression?
Olivia misread not: Froissart was in a state of anguished apprehension. He was sorely afraid that something would go wrong that night. But he knew what would happen if he declined to attempt the ordeal. He would be beaten until his sodden corpse collapsed in a weltering mass of splattered blood and splintered bone. Would be a putrid corpse by this time tomorrow.
It was too much.
He needed to sit down.
So, without thinking, he did just that.
Such was Froissart’s distress that, as he took his seat, the untutored observer might have been excused for imagining he was sitting on knives.
‘Sir,’ said a waiter.
‘You’re speaking to me?’ said Froissart.
‘I wish only to say, sir, that nobody is to seat themselves yet.’
‘Oh,’ said Froissart, in confusion; and stood.
Olivia saw his gaffe and smiled the smile of a polished sophisticate, the smile of a young lady who knows all about banquets and their protocols. Then, turning from Froissart (he was too old to hold her interest for long) she looked for the starvation cage Chegory had mentioned, but it was nowhere to be seen. Justina had had it removed lest it become (as well it might in such troubled times) a source of inspiration to the wicked.
‘Hello, Olivia,’ said Justina, finding her amidst the throng.
‘Hello,’ said Olivia Qasaba to her Empress. ‘Where am I sitting?’
‘On my left,’ said Justina. ‘Varazchavardan will be to my right.’
‘And to my left?’
‘My lawyer, Dardanalti. He’s a very civilized man, but he’ll probably be concentrating his attentions on the man to his left, who will be Judge Qil.’
Shortly, it was time for the banquet to begin. The customary preliminary ceremonies took place and then Justina made a special announcement:
‘There will be no drumming at banquet. Penalty for breach of this regulation will be death.’
This proclamation was greeted with general applause. Such were the tensions in the Grand Hall that all adults present were glad to have one thing they could agree upon unanimously: namely, that the delinquencies of the youthful ‘drumming’ cultists of Injiltaprajura were a threat to law, order and civilization.
Seeing how richly her proclamation was being rewarded Justina began to regret that she had not made it earlier. At this late date she finally realized how she might have been able to unite Injiltaprajura under her rule. A campaign to control, discipline, outlaw and punish the ‘drummers’ would have proved universally popular, and might — just might — have allowed Justina to start the process of unifying Untunchilamon against the threat from Aldarch the Third.
But it was too late for that now.
So…
So sit back and enjoy!
As Justina was still luxuriating in the applause, a little smoke from a mosquito coil eddied in her direction and stung her eyes. For how much longer would she retain the possession of those most delicate of the sensory portals? Not for long, not if something went wrong tonight. She might lose it all. Her hands, those fascinating instrumentalities of the will. Her But enough of such thoughts!
I can. I do. I dare.
And I will win!
So thought the Empress.
Then, like a child determined to fight, she fisted hands. Then caught herself doing just that, and smiled, unfolded her hands and soothed a couple of beads of sweat from her forehead.
‘Some pineapple, Vazzy?’ she said, offering a saucer of these titbits to the guest on her right.
‘Thank you,’ said Aquitaine Varazchavardan, taking a sample.
Varazchavardan was unhappy, as miserable and as fearful in his own way as was Jean Froissart. He felt — what was it? Not panic, exactly. But a merciless desolation.
This I may survive.
But…
We die even as we sit here.
A truism, for all know that nothing can slow the inevitable conquest by time. However, through much of life this underlying reality is masked by life’s trivia, or by work, the ultimate refuge of the sensitive mind.
While Varazchavardan was distressed, afflicted by both temporal fears and existential malaise, he hid his distress well. Such were his thespian skills that he looked totally unperturbed; looked, in fact, every bit the solemn Master of Law; looked slightly bored rather than grossly disturbed.
Elsewhere sat Manthandros Trasilika, his caution rapidly giving way to a grandeur of insolent ego as the banquet got underway and a little liquor got under his skin. Trasilika’s ebullience was not restrained by the fact that he was seated opposite Master Ek, who would surely prove himself a true representative of the institutionalized rage of Zoz the Ancestral should Jean Froissart fail the ordeal which awaited him that night.
Yes, no circumventions of mercy could prevent the inevitable processes of the law which would doom Jean Froissart if he failed tonight’s test. Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek would personally supervise Froissart’s destruction: and then would turn his attention to Manthandros Trasilika.
Already Ek was dreaming of the sly probes with which he would first excite Froissart’s nerves; of the exquisite crunch with which his pincers would mutilate the bones of the foreigner’s fingers; of the lush blood which would pour from the tongue of that child of Wen Endex as the fish-hooks tore free…
While Ek thus dreamt, he rolled himself a cigarette. He blew gently upon a slow-burning mosquito coil to persuade it into fiercer life, then lit his cigarette with the help of this heat source. Immediately a waiter hurried up to remonstrate with him.
The acolytes seated on either side of Master Ek — Paach Ch’ha Saat and Aath Nau Das — immediately became alert. Ch’ha Saat reached for the blade he had smuggled into the banquet, but Ek slapped down his hand before the foolish young man could precipitate a diplomatic incident.
‘What is it?’ said Ek to the waiter.
‘My lord,’ said the waiter, ‘I must ask you to extinguish that paper pipe, for smoking at banquet is strictly forbidden.’
Ek turned his green-flecked orange eyes upon the waiter and said:
‘You are in error. Judge Qil has ruled that the smoking to which you allude relates only to the consumption of opium, kif or grass clippings. That is his judgment, which you will find in the records of the case of the Imperium versus Odolo.’
‘But, sir-’
‘I am not smoking opium,’ said Ek. ‘Nor am I smoking kif, or grass clippings. I am smoking a rare and fragment herb known as tobacco, which is perfectly lawful. If you doubt me, then go and ask Judge Qil himself. That’s him
— there. Sitting by Dardanalti.’
The waiter retreated in confusion.
Perhaps you are asking yourself why this incident has found its way into a history as scholarly as this one. Had you acquaintance with waiters, you would not so ask; for you would know that the overbearing insolence of this breed is such that the public discomfiture of any one of their number is a matter well worth recording for posterity.
Anyway, there sat Master Ek, smoking and dreaming, and watching the banquet guests eat and drink, talk and gossip, or sit in silent speculation.
If the truth be told, there was rather much silent speculation that night. This banquet lacked the uproarious sense of abandonment which had characterized other such celebrations in Justina’s palace. While Juliet Idaho was drinking with a will, others merely sipped cautiously at their drinks, their minds given to fatigue or to forebodings of disaster.
Among those who were particularly subdued were Bro Drumel (captain of Justina’s palace guard) and Hostaja Torsen Sken-Pitilkin (builder of the imperial airship). Fear of torture was depressing the elegant Drumel, who nightly dreamt of the agony he expected to suffer ultimately at the hands of Aldarch the Third. For his own part, Sken-Pitilkin was near dead with fatigue. He was feeling his age, and was bowed down by the rigours of his airship building labours.
While the mood was subdued, the food was not, and an amazement of good things were served to the guests. There was a surpassing succulence of dragonlord salad, expensive stuff indeed as it is cut from the heart of the headgrowth of a coconut tree, and the tree necessarily dies as a result of this interference with its foliage. There was a wealth of lotus seeds soaked in honey. There was bottled abalone, fresh chicken livers, jellyfish soup, stuffed sea slugs and, of course, the inevitable flying fish (braised, stewed and brewed up in a chowder).
While this feast was in progress, a messenger slipped up to Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun. Ek and whispered into the ear of the High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral.
Ek’s eyes did not widen, nor did he blanch. For Master Ek was an old man who had endured a great many shocks and knew how to keep calm in a crisis. Even so, there was a slight tremor in his voice when he conveyed the gist of the message to his acolytes Paach Ch’ha Saat and Aath Nau Das.
‘We have been warned,’ said Ek.
‘Of what?’ said Ch’ha Saat.
‘Shut up!’ said Nau Das. ‘He’s telling us, isn’t he?’
‘I only-’
‘Silence!’ hissed Ek. ‘Listen. The messenger brought me a warning. There will be violence tonight. We must be ready to kill. Things are coming to a crisis.’
‘Why?’ said Nau Das. ‘What is it?’
‘Our spies have uncovered a plot,’ said Ek. ‘The Thrug is planning something.’
‘What?’ said Nau Das
‘The Froissart thing will fail its test tonight. Then we will have to kill it. We will have no choice. It is a false priest, however accomplished its tongue.’
‘So we kill it,’ said Nau Das. ‘So what?’
‘The Thrug has another wazir on hand,’ said Ek. ‘What!’
‘Yes. A madman. From the Dromdanjerie.’
‘But who?’
‘Our sources give two possible candidates. One is Orge Arat.’
‘Him!’
‘Yes, him. The axe murderer.’
‘But that’s impossible. Too many people know who he is. And what.’
‘Yes, so he’s not the most likely choice. It’s more probably the other candidate.’
‘Who?’ ‘Rye Phobos,’ said Ek.
‘The name means nothing,’ said Nau Das.
‘Nothing to me, either,’ said Ch’ha Saat.
So Ek enlightened his acolytes, explaining what Phobos had done at the age of fourteen, when he had given good cause for his permanent incarceration.
‘That was thirty years ago,’ said Ek. ‘Nobody’s seen him since. Nobody outside the staff of the Dromdanjerie.’
‘Then — the Qasaba girl!’ said Nau Das, who was always quick off the mark. ‘Olivia Qasaba. She could identify him.’
‘Yes,’ said Ek, glancing briefly at Olivia, who was even then sharing a joke with the Empress Justina. ‘But will she? We may have to overcome this false wazir by brute force.’
‘What?’ said Ch’ha Saat. ‘Just the three of us?’
‘Others here are friends of Aldarch the Third,’ said Master Ek. ‘If offered a pardon for past sins, Aquitaine Varazchavardan may come to our aid. Anyway, it takes but a moment to kill a man. We have blades. We can do it. So wait. Wait for my signal.’
Then Ek brought this whispered conference to an end and the three sat back, contemplating the fighting talent arranged around the table. All Justina’s allies were here, some of them potentially very dangerous fighters: the bullman Log Jarvis, the Yudonic Knight Juliet Idaho, the Ashdan warrior Shanvil Angarus May, the corpse-master Uckermark and his loud-mouthed woman Yilda.
The odds were in Justina’s favour.
But…
They will not dare to kill me.
So thought Master Ek. Surely Justina would not be rash enough to murder the High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral. If she did, then all the Believers on Untunchilamon would rise against her at once, and tear her from limb to limb.
So…
Let her produce her false wazir. And I will kill the thing. Then see what she dares to do.
Thus thought Master Ek, then, yielding to appetite, began to feed from the fresh dishes which were being placed on the table. There were juicy bean shoots and quantities of the rare green mushrooms which only grew in a particular place Downstairs. There was crab meat served with the finest polished white rice. And dogmeat, monkey meat, and the flesh of half a hundred cats as well.
Master Ek studied Jean Froissart anew as the time for the trial by ordeal drew near. Soon Froissart would have to pick up a ball of red-hot iron without injury to himself, thus proving himself a true priest of Zoz. Thanks to the intelligence he had received, Ek knew Froissart must fail.
But did Froissart know it?
Watching him, Ek was not sure.
At last, the moment arrived. The Empress Justina hammered on the table with a soup spoon, conjuring silence in the banqueting hall.
‘We announce,’ said she, ‘the trial by ordeal of Jean Froissart, who will handle red-hot iron to prove himself a true priest of Zoz.’
Then a cowled and black-masked figure entered the Grand Hall. This was the executioner who would put Froissart through his ordeal. Nobody knew who he was; this anonymity was not just traditional but was enshrined in the law, and was meant to protect the executioner from suffering vengeance at the hands of the friends, relatives and associates of those he ordealed, tortured or killed.
Two slaves followed the executioner into the Grand Hall. The slaves deposited a brazier mounted on an iron tripod. It was already alight. The slaves then departed, returning shortly afterwards with a similar tripod supporting a basket containing old iron. Atop the basket was a set of bellows. One of the slaves used this to excite the mass of burning charcoal in the brazier while the other fetched a bucket of cold water. Then the black-masked executioner muttered a command and both slaves left.
Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek evinced no outward interest in these proceedings, but lit another cigarette and sat back in his chair. In moments, Jean Froissart would be exposed as a fraud.
This was something to savour.
The Empress Justina then left her chair and walked to the side of the executioner, and there waited for Jean Froissart. He approached, and said, loudly:
‘My lady, I am here to undertake trial by ordeal.’
Justina smiled, then answered:
‘This trial has my favour.’
Then Froissart dropped his voice to a whisper and said:
‘Where is the salve? The magic salve?’
‘Oh, you don’t need that,’ said Justina pleasantly.
Froissart stared at her.
‘But — but you-’
‘I promised,’ said Justina, and smiled sweetly. ‘Well, I’m breaking my promise.’
‘You mustn’t!’ said Froissart savagely.
Surely this was a joke. But a joke in the worst possible taste. The Thrug would pay for this!
But Juliet Idaho was already at Froissart’s elbow.
‘Don’t you tell the Empress what she can or can’t do,’ said Idaho. ‘Speak your piece. Thank the Empress for her favour. Come on! Or I’ll rip you to pieces on the spot.’
He meant what he said.
Too late, Froissart realized Justina was serious. He had been tricked, fooled, double-crossed and swindled. Set up as a sacrifice. If he protested, Idaho would kill him on the spot. With the approval of law and custom, for a priest who flinched from an ordeal was doomed to instant destruction.
But if I die, the Thrug dies.
Surely. For if Jean Froissart was killed, then Manthandros Trasilika would be thought a false wazir. Whereupon Trasilika would be killed too, and Trasilika’s pardon of Justina would be revoked, and Justina herself would be tried then executed.
So thought Froissart.
Unless.
Ah yes.
Unless the Thrug had another wazir on hand.
Froissart had heard the rumours about escaped lunatics from the Dromdanjerie. A great many people believed (or at least claimed to believe) that the Thrug was grooming a cunning psychopath to rule as wazir on Untunchilamon.
Whatever the truth of the matter:
I have no choice.
So:
‘My lady,’ said Froissart, ‘I thank you for granting this trial your favour.’
‘That is well spoken,’ said Justina. Then she said: ‘Would you please step this way?’
Why? Where were they going? This was not part of the prescribed ritual of the trial by ordeal!
Despite his confusion, Froissart followed the Empress. Who led him to Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek. Froissart wanted to run. But Juliet Idaho was just a footfall to the rear, and Froissart knew instant death would befall him if he tried to flee.
‘Master Ek,’ said Justina, ‘I would like you to do me the favour of examining this gentleman’s hands.’
‘With pleasure,’ said Ek, pleased to have this opportunity to make sure that no trickery was taking place. ‘Froissart! Show me your claws!’
Here a grave insult, for the Janjuladoola word which Master Ek used to say ‘claws’ was ‘emokskok’, a term used only of certain taloned beasts which are held to be ritually unclean. To use this word of a human is to suggest that the person in question is no better than a foul and monstrous brute beast.
But Froissart did not protest.
Froissart was having trouble merely staying on his feet as Master Ek examined his hands. Sweat was bubbling from Froissart’s forehead, but his hands were dry.
‘It appears,’ said Master Ek, ‘that no magical or mundane agency has interfered with this man’s hands.’
‘Thank you,’ said Justina. Then, to Froissart: ‘Well, Frozzy darling. Let us go. The executioner is waiting.’
Then Juliet Idaho gave Froissart a little shove, and the hapless priest stumbled toward his doom.
Froissart was terrified.
In moments, he would be dead.
When he had to hold the red-hot iron, he would scream. And his flesh would crisp. And a hideous stench of burning would fill the air. And he would drop the iron. And he would clutch his ruined hand. And all would know him unequal to the ordeal. And all would think him a false priest, for all that he was true. And his death would befall him.
Froissart was almost paralysed by terror. He looked like a zombie as he ambulated toward the brazier.
Ek watched.
Ek drew upon his cigarette. Drew heavily.
The High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral was a connoisseur of terror. If he was any judge — and he believed himself to be the best — then the fear of death was upon the young Jean Froissart.
Ek hissed, softly.
‘Master?’ said one of his acoloytes.
‘He knows he will fail,’ said Ek. ‘He was confident this morning, but he’s not now. Something’s gone wrong, at least for him. He’s going to die here, and he knows it. Which means the Thrug has got her false wazir close at hand. Be ready for anything. Swords, mayhap. Or worse.’
‘Worse?’ ‘Burning zen perhaps. Who knows? Just be ready!’
Thus murmured Ek.
The High Priest was sitting forward now, watching Froissart intently. Froissart stopped a couple of paces away from the brazipr and its attendant. Froissart’s face was that of a corpse.
‘I am the master of the ordeal,’ said the cowled figure who commanded the brazier.
Who spoke?
Master Ek listened intently, but could not divine the identity of that shadow-faced entity. The voice was hoarse and half-throttled. It was the voice of a thing from the grave.
‘Master,’ said Froissart. ‘I am-’
Then his voice failed entirely.
‘We know who you are,’ said the masked executioner. ‘You are Jean Froissart, one who comes to prove himself a priest of Zoz.’
Froissart found enough voice to say:
‘Yes.’
Everyone in the banqueting hall heard that single word clearly, for all eating had ceased. Only the waiters still went about their business, adroitly clearing away dirty plates and discarded stabs. But such was their professionalism that they were as inconspicuous as ghosts of the invisible type.
‘Choose,’ said the executioner. ‘Choose the iron for your ordeal.’
So saying, the cowled figure pointed at the basket of iron balls. Froissart reached out. Took one at random. It was cold and heavy. Bits of rust came off on his hands as he handed it to the executioner.
‘Pick up the bellows,’ said the executioner. ‘Stoke the brazier.’
Froissart did so.
It seemed the whole world was watching Jean Froissart as he worked the bellows. Would he faint? Would he collapse? Would he scream and run?
He did none of those things.
Instead, the rhythmical labour of working the bellows helped ease his terror. Good, hard, physical work. An ache in his forearms. Sweat rolling down his forehead, stinging as it burnt into his eyes, and for once he welcomed the sweat, the heat, the cloth wet against his back, he was alive, for the moment, for the moment at least, if he worked hard enough he could maybe extend the moment to for ever.
But ‘Enough,’ said the executioner.
Froissart stepped back. Just a pace. And now all watched as the executioner held aloft the iron ball.
‘Who touches this, dies,’ said the executioner. ‘Unless he touches it by my consent. Nobody yet has my consent.’
Then the executioner lowered the iron ball on to the hot coals.
‘Please,’ said Froissart, his voice a muttering whisper. ‘Please,’ he said, staring at the iron. ‘A thousand dragons if you say I can have it now.’
‘They can hear you at the table, fool,’ said the executioner.
Froissart looked up. Turned on the banqueters. Could they hear him? Really? Their faces showed nothing but anticipatory interest.
‘Please,’ said Froissart.
He was begging.
‘I cannot be bribed,’ said the executioner. ‘You must go through with your ordeal in accordance with the proper and lawful rituals.’
As yet, the iron ball was still a sullen black. But, as Froissart watched, it slowly began to get hot.
‘Ah,’ said the executioner. ‘It is turning red with the heat. See?’
Froissart could not help but look. It was true. The dead iron was glowing red hot. Sullen waves of heat radiated outwards. The air above the brazier was trembling. Seen through the buckling air, Master Ek’s face warped and distorted.
Without warning, black spots started swarming through the air like so many pestering insects. Froissart swayed on his feet.
‘Don’t fall,’ hissed the executioner. ‘Fall, and you’ll die on the spot.’
Froissart steadied himself. His vision cleared. His focus sharpened.
‘Look at it,’ said the executioner. ‘Look at the iron.’
Unwillingly, Froissart did so.
‘Now,’ said the executioner, ‘reach out your hand. Reach out your hand and pick it up. Do it!’
Froissart reached out with his right hand.
An anticipatory shock sent shivers prickling all along his arms. His vision sharpened. He saw the veins of fire in the charcoal pulsing softly, alive with a luminescent rhythm. He saw the red-hot iron ball glowering, waiting. He wanted to scream. A sob broke from his throat. His hand became a claw. His hand closed around the iron ball.
Which was cold.
As cold as ice.
Jean Froissart lifted the iron ball and held it aloft.
He knew the sensation of cold must be an illusion, something his nerves had done to save his mind from the agony of his burning flesh. He. knew his flesh was burning because he could smell it.
‘That is enough,’ said the executioner.
‘Enough?’
‘Drop the iron.’
Froissart dropped the iron ball. It fell heavily to the stone. The sound of iron hitting stone rang through the Grand Hall. Everyone in the place was utterly silent. Watching Froissart. For a few moments, the iron ball continued to glow red hot, but it rapidly cooled to black.
The executioner picked up the bucket of water which his slaves had earlier brought into the Grand Hall together with the brazier, the bellows and the heap of old iron.
‘I must cool the iron,’ said the executioner. ‘Stand back, for there will be steam when I pour the water over it.’
Jean Froissart did not see how a little steam could do him any harm. Nevertheless, he took a couple of steps backwards. The executioner began to pour water from the bucket. The water splashed around the iron ball and hissed into steam. The executioner continued to pour until no more steam rose from the iron ball. Water spread out across the floor. The executioner exhausted the contents of the bucket, nudged the iron ball cautiously with his foot, then picked it up and treasured it in his hands.
‘Show me your hands,’ said the executioner.
‘What?’ said Froissart.
‘You heard me. Show me your hands.’
Both Froissart’s hands were tightly clenched. He was trying to stave off the pain which must surely be waiting in his right hand, waiting for the moment to reveal itself.
‘Show me!’
Reluctantly, Froissart uncoiled both hands.
They were unmarked, the right no different to the left.
‘But,’said Froissart in a whisper,‘but…’
‘A miracle,’ said the executioner. ‘But then, you are a true priest of Zoz the Ancestral. It is an acknowledged truth that Zoz the Ancestral will work a miracle such as this when that is necessary to prove a true priest true.’
‘It is,’ said Froissart weakly.
Then the executioner said:
‘Go.’
‘Go where?’ said Froissart.
‘Where do you think!? Go to the table. Show them your hands!’
Obedient to this command, Jean Froissart walked toward the banqueting tables. He felt as if he were walking on air. He was delirious with disbelieving relief.
He approached Master Ek. He displayed his hands.
‘Here,’ said Ek roughly.
Moments later, Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek was gouging at Froissart’s hands, digging into them, knuckling them, rubbing them. But he could find no damage. The High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral was furious.
‘Bring me the ball,’ said Master Ek. ‘The iron ball. I want to see it. Now! Get it!’
The cowled and night-masked executioner was still holding the iron ball which had been used for Jean Froissart’s ordeal. Froissart walked toward him.
‘What do you want?’ said the executioner.
‘The iron ball,’ said Froissart.
‘Take it,’ said the executioner, handing the thing over. ‘Keep it. A souvenir.’
‘It’s Ek who wants it,’ said Froissart.
‘Then he’s welcome to it,’ said the masked executioner. ‘Go. Give it to him.’
As Froissart walked toward Master Ek, the executioner made his departure. His slaves came into the Grand Hall and began removing the equipment.
‘Here,’ said Ek, impatiently. ‘Give me the thing here.’
Froissart handed over the iron ball.
Ek took it into his hands and looked at it suspiciously. It was cold, cold as the belly of a dead lizard on a chilly morning. A flake of rust came away in Ek’s hands. A trace of sweat from Ek’s skin moistened the rust, which left a black stain when he brushed it away. Ek handed the ball to the most trusted of his acolytes, Aath Nau Das.
‘Take this thing,’ said Ek. ‘Take it, and test it to destruction.’
Then he turned to Froissart.
‘You have passed,’ said Ek. ‘You have passed the test. You have proved yourself a true priest of Zoz.’
‘Then,’ said Manthandros Trasilika loudly, ‘since Froissart’s a true priest, I am a true wazir.’
Ek looked at him coldly.
‘You are,’ said Ek. ‘All Untunchilamon will know as much by this time tomorrow. That I promise you. For now — let the banquet continue.’
Saying that was strictly the prerogative of the Empress Justina, but she let it pass. She felt quite weak with relief. So it had all gone off as planned. She had expected it to, of course. But there were so many things which could have gone wrong. So very many things.
What, for example, if Master Ek had demanded that the executioner be unmasked…?
Elsewhere, in a secure room far removed from the Great Hall — Justina’s bedroom, as it happens — the executioner was unmasking. The cowled figure proved to be Odolo, Injiltaprajura’s master conjuror. Once unmasked, Odolo reached into his mouth, withdrew a bit of palate-contorting wood, and tossed the much-hated thing aside.
He worked his jaw this way and that, experimentally, then said, in accents far removed from those the chunk of wood had forced upon him:
‘That’s better.’
Then Odolo reached into one of his capacious sleeves and withdrew a rusty iron ball.
‘OK,’ said Odolo. ‘That’s it.’
The ball quivered.
It became a spherical watermelon.
A gleaming golden orb.
A mirror.
A miniature sun.
A globe webbed all over with delicate patterns of brown and green.
Then a silver-bright bubble of light, which squeaked in
‘Did I do well?’ said Shabble.
‘Oh, you did very, very well,’ said Odolo. ‘Did I give you the cues at the right time?’
‘I didn’t really need them,’ said Shabble. ‘I remembered what to do when. But you told them right, you did, if I’d forgotten something I’d have remembered when you told me.’
‘The best bit was the water,’ said Odolo. ‘The water steaming. Was that hard to do? To go from cool to hot?’ ‘Not when you’re a shabble,’ said Shabble. ‘I’m really a sun, you know. That’s how I do it.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Odolo. ‘You know I know. You know why I know.’
‘Of course I do,’ said Shabble.
‘You did do very well,’ said Odolo, knowing that Shabble loved praise. Then: ‘Shabble, we need your help. You could help us again.’
‘Oh no,’ said Shabble. ‘I explained about that already. This was the last time. For old time’s sake. I have to go now. I have to get back to the temple.’
‘I could send you to a-’
‘You said you wouldn’t!’ said Shabble. ‘You promised. You swore!’
‘I know,’ said Odolo, an unfamiliar note of tension and regret in his voice. ‘So I did. But, while I’d like to think of myself as a man of honour-’
Shabble abruptly grew red hot and spun, spitting out a dozen fireballs. Odolo dodged and ducked, and ended up flat on his face on the floor. And Shabble, with unexpected anger in Shabbleself s voice, said:
‘I wargamed this with Uckermark. He told me you’d try to make me your slave.’
‘What else did he tell you?’ said Odolo, shocked and shaken. ‘What else?’ And here the conjuror picked himself up off the floor. ‘To kill me?’
‘If necessary,’ said Shabble. ‘You were going to say it, weren’t you? You were going to say the words. You were going to make me do things. Weren’t you?’
‘I… I… Shabble, my… could we… can we… could we still be friends?’
A silence.
Then Shabble spoke:
‘Yes. We could still be friends.’
‘Very well, Shabble my friend,’ said Odolo. ‘Thank you for your help tonight. I’m sorry I… I’m sorry I almost gave way to temptation. Go back to your temple, Shabble my friend, and go with my good wishes. But do bear us in mind. I don’t say you could solve all of our problems, but you might help us to save some of them.’
‘I have, I have,’ said Shabble, sounding hurt.
From Shabble’s point of view, a good deal of the last twenty thousand years had been spent doing very little but helping people. Shabble had taught them and counselled them, had played music for them and kept them company in prisons and elsewhere, had designed machines for them, had translated foreign languages for them, had told them stories and had worked out their income tax.
But people seemed to be in as much of a mess as they ever were, and they were still as full of demands as ever.
After twenty thousand years, Shabble had had enough. Shabble was a priest now, the High Priest of the Temple of the Holy Cockroach, with Shabbleselfs own life to lead, so people would just have to get on with the job of helping themselves. And if they didn’t, if they continued to make importunate demands upon poor old overworked Shabble — why, then Shabble would burn some of them up, and Shabbleselfs lawyers would have something to say to any who were left unburnt!
‘You did very, very well,’ said Odolo, laying on the praise for on e last time. ‘And I’m very proud of you.’ ‘And you’re going to kiss me goodnight,’ said Shabble. ‘You promised.’
‘And I’m as good as my word,’ said Odolo.
And the conjuror kissed dear Shabble, who thereafter took Shabbleself off to Xtokobrokotok in Marthandorthan, and spent the rest of the night leading the congregation of the Cult of the Holy Cockroach in rituals of worship and praise.