For Justina Thrug, that morning breakfast was a delicate affair. Jean Froissart had proved himself a true priest of Zoz the Ancestral, therefore Manthandros Trasilika would surely have no trouble in getting himself accepted by one and all as the true wazir, the legitimate wazir appointed by Aldarch the Third to rule over Untunchilamon in the name of the Izdimir Empire.
So…
Really, as far as Justina could see, Trasilika no longer had any pressing need for her services. Such was Trasilika’s confidence that he appeared to have sent away all his guards — Justina’s spies told her those guards were now concentrated in the Temple of Torture. And he had also sent away his ship. All of which suggested he felt very, very secure already. So what was to stop him doing away with her? Nothing. Unless she made herself very, very valuable to him in a great big hurry. Given Trasilika’s manifest confidence in his grasp on power, that might prove difficult — but she had to try.
That was why Justina was there so early in the morning, seeking to entangle Trasilika in drug-dealing schemes which would alienate him from Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek and make him dependent on the services of her friend and ally Log Jaris. All she wanted was Trasilika’s protection, just for a few more days. In that time, she would — she must, otherwise she would surely die — scheme up some way to extricate the organic rectifier from Master Ek’s clutches.
Once Justina had the organic rectifier, she could take it to the Crab and transform that entity into human form. (Always assuming that she could deduce the secret of operating the rectifier, or that the Crab could work it out for itself.)
Once the Crab was made human then it would surely, out of gratitude, solve the rest of her problems.
But staying alive until she could think of some way to win the organic rectifier — why, that might prove very, very difficult indeed. However, the business breakfast seemed to go well enough, for Manthandros Trasilika attended to her schemes with every appearance of interest, even though he was obviously fatigued and hung over.
Then a frantic Jean Froissart intruded upon their conference in the greatest of panics imaginable.
‘They mean to kill me!’ babbled Froissart.
‘Get a grip on yourself,’ said Trasilika. ‘Sit down. Tell me all about it.’
Froissart then spilt out the most extraordinary tale. Master Ek, High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral, had named him as a human sacrifice for the Festival of Light!
‘You must stop him!’ said Froissart. ‘Use your powers as wazir to over-rule the High Priest or else!’
‘Or else what?’
‘Or else I’ll reveal you for what you are. A false wazir!’
‘But I’m not a false wazir,’ protested Trasilika. ‘I’m the real thing, appointed by Al’three himself.’
‘That makes no difference,’ said Froissart. ‘Only one person in five truly believes you. The rest will happily murder you if given the slightest excuse.’
Not for the first time, Manthandros Trasilika wished he was still back in Bolfrigalaskaptiko, that city of mud and mosquitoes which lies on the far-away Crocodile River, also known as the River Ka. Now, his sojourn in that place of marsh and fever seemed positively idyllic. However, he could not go back. He had not sailed from Manamalargo and the shores of Yestron on a whim. No: he had come to Untunchilamon on the direct orders of Aldarch the Third.
And APthree would be very, very unhappy with Trasilika if he failed to secure the rule of Untunchilamon for the Mutilator.
So Trasilika needs do whatever he must to maintain himself in authority.
Even if that meant going up against a High Priest of the religion so dear to the Mutilator’s heart.
‘I–I will order Master Ek that you are not to be sacrificed,’ said Trasilika.
‘Thank you,’ said Jean Froissart.
‘You thank him prematurely,’ said Justina Thrug.
‘What?’ said Trasilika. ‘Do you think Master Ek will dare to disobey me?’
‘He may,’ said Justina.
‘What makes you say that?’ said Trasilika.
The wazir and the witch stared at each other. Justina was thinking, thinking, thinking with greater concentration than ever before in her life. Master Ek had chosen Jean Froissart as a human sacrifice. So Ek wanted Froissart dead. So Ek did not believe that Froissart had passed his trial by ordeal thanks to divine intervention. So Ek thought Froissart to be a false priest, and Trasilika to be a false wazir. (Were they false? At this moment, for the life of her Justina could not tell.)
But ‘Have you lost your tongue?’ said Trasilika.
‘I expect to keep my tongue for longer than you will keep yours,’ said Justina, with great deliberation.
She was sweating. She hoped Trasilika would not notice. Even if he did, why — it was a hot day, and she was a fleshy woman much given to perspiration. So ‘Are you threatening me?’ said Trasilika ominously.
‘I believe,’ said Justina, ‘that it is Master Ek who is threatening you. He does so on good grounds. He knows the trial by ordeal was a fraud.’
‘But it wasn’t!’ objected Froissart. ‘I did it, I did it, I don’t know how but I did it, I picked up the red-hot iron, no magic salve, no nothing, none of your witchcraft, I did it myself.’
‘What you picked up,’ said Justina, ‘was Shabble.’ ‘Shabble?’ said
Froissart, momentarily nonplussed. ‘You have met,’ said Justina. ‘Sha bble escorted you ashore on your first day in Injiltaprajura. Remember? The melting of weapons, the-’
‘Oh, I remember,’ said Froissart. ‘Shabble is the ball, the floating ball.’
‘Yes,’ said Justina. ‘And it was Shabble who helped you pass your trial by ordeal.’
She explained.
While she did so, she thought furiously. Ek clearly intended to destroy Froissart, which suggested that Ek probably had Trasilika’s death in mind also. Trasilika, all unsuspecting, had sent his guards to the Temple of Torture, where they had come under Ek’s command. And Trasilika had sent away his ship. Or had he? If only she could find out!
‘… and,’ said Justina, concluding her tale, ‘Master Ek knows all about Shabble and the trial by ordeal. Just as I know why your ship has gone away and why your guards are in the Temple of Torture.’
Justina smiled, trying to look smug and knowing. This was a big gamble. If only ‘What do you know?’ said Trasilika. ‘Tell me!’
‘That,’ said Justina, bristling, ‘is scarcely the tone of voice to use with me.’
She was in a quandary. If she confessed that she did not really know why Trasilika’s guards and ships had left, then she would have to admit that she was effectively out of the political game, that she was powerless and friendless, and could be destroyed at Trasilika’s whim. (Assuming he could find men to destroy her, which should not prove an insurmountable problem.) If, on the other hand, she could persuade him that she knew, that she was privy to Master Ek’s decisions, that she was in fact in league with Master Ek — why then, by using such an illusion of power as leverage, she might be able to get Trasilika to help her recover the organic rectifier. Somehow.
‘You will tell me all you know,’ said Trasilika, with unsuppressed anger. ‘And now. Or else!’
Justina glanced at Log Jaris. Could he help her? Log Jaris winked. That wink said: I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’ll help if I can.
‘Log Jaris, my friend,’ said Justina, rising from the table. ‘It is time for us to go. Come. Master Ek will be getting impatient.’
‘Master Ek will be getting impatient,’ said Log Jaris, repeating Justina’s last words to cover his own confusion. ‘Yes, yes, no doubt he will. Very well. Then let us go.’
‘To Ek?’ said Trasilika. ‘Why are you going to Ek?’
‘To arrange for your execution,’ said Justina smoothly, launching herself upon the greatest bluff of her political career, a bluff of breathtaking audacity.
‘My execution!’ said Trasilika, scandalized.
‘Why, yes,’ said Justina. ‘He can’t kill you himself, can he? Not without proof of your falsehood. But I can.’ ‘You!’ said Trasilika. ‘B ut you-’
‘We can’t stop her,’ said Froissart. ‘Ek has our soldiers.’ So! No w Justina knew Manthandros Trasilika had not voluntarily sent his guar ds to Master Ek at the Temple of Torture. Rather, those men had been s tolen away by Master Ek. That was all she needed.
‘Yes,’ said she. ‘Your ship is gone, and your guards are no longer yours to command. You’re helpless. This is what will happen. The soldiers will pretend to mutiny against Master Ek. Under my command, they will loot and pillage. They will also chop off your head. Then Master Ek will make himself wazir of Untunchilamon. Whether you are a fraud or a real wazir appointed by Aldarch the Third makes no difference, for Ek himself will be innocent of all violence against your person. But I-’
‘My lady,’ said Log Jaris in vehement protest, ‘it is unwise to spill our secrets to this thing. His life is doomed so-’
‘Quiet!’ said Justina, doing her best to pretend she was angry with the bullman’s interjection. ‘As I was saying, Ek will appear innocent, for all the blame will fall on me.’
‘Then you’ll be killed,’ said Trasilika.
‘Sharked in the lagoon,’ said Froissart. ‘Or chopped into catmeat.’
‘No,’ said Justina sweetly. ‘I will escape to the north and live happily ever after in the court of Jal Japone. I have a standing invitation from that formidable warlord. He will give me shelter whenever I want for as long as I want. Master Ek has promised me safe passage out of Injiltaprajura, you see, as soon as you are dead.’
‘He’s lying,’ said Trasilika desperately. ‘You can’t trust him!’
‘I have to,’ said Justina. ‘I have no alternative. Unless I can recover the organic rectifier.’
‘The what?’ said Trasilika.
‘The organic rectifier,’ said Justina. ‘It is a device which can c hange the form of the flesh one inhabits. It could make a man into a c rab. Or a crab into a man.’ ‘And you think that would somehow solve yo ur problems?’ said Trasilika. ‘How so?’
‘Because,’ said Justina, ‘with this organic rectifier, I could change the Crab of the island of Jod into a human. Once so changed, the Crab in gratitude would grant me all I wished. It would extend its mercy to you, I’m sure, if you were to help us recover this organic rectifier.’
‘Where is it?’ said Trasilika.
‘Ek has it,’ said Justina. ‘It is in the Temple of Torture.’
‘Then he’ll never give it up!’ said Trasilika. ‘Not if he knows how important it is.’
‘Ah,’ said Justina. ‘But he doesn’t know. He only suspects. I have told him the thing is a skavamareen, an ancient musical instrument. He doesn’t quite believe me, but he doesn’t necessarily disbelieve, either.’
‘So… so what do you suggest?’ said Trasilika.
Justina smiled. And this time there was nothing feigned about that smile.
She had successfully convinced Manthandros Trasilika that she was Master Ek’s ally, and that Ek intended to use her as an instrument for perpetrating the perfect murder, the victim of this murder to be Trasilika himself. She had created the illusion she needed to give her political leverage. And now she was using this leverage to force Trasilika to make an alliance with her against Master Ek.
‘I suggest,’ said Justina, ‘that you order the organic rectifier to be released.’
‘Ek will not release it,’ said Trasilika positively. ‘If he thinks there’s one chance in a thousand that the thing could make the Crab into a human, he’ll never let it go.’
‘Even so,’ said Justina, ‘we should try. For there is at least one chance in a thousand that Ek might yield the thing to us without a fuss. In which case, our problems will be over.’
‘And if he does not?’ said Trasilika.
‘Then we must take it from him,’ said Justina.
‘But how?’ said Trasilika. ‘My ship is gone, my guards have been bribed away, and you… well, you have no fighting force, have you?’
‘We can try to scratch together a force of some description,’ said Justina. ‘Remember, we are not trying to conquer Untunchilamon. All we have to do is get the organic rectifier from Injiltaprajura to the island of Jod.’ ‘Might it not be simpler,’ said Froissart, ‘to get the Crab to exert its powers to bring the rectifier to the shores of Jod?’
‘Yes,’ said Trasilika. ‘If the organic rectifier is what you say it is and does what you say it does, why shouldn’t the Crab lend us its aid?’
‘Jod is under quarantine,’ said Log Jaris. ‘The quarantine is not perfect. Any soul brave enough to swim the Laitemata by night could gain an audience with the Crab. But… many people have lied to the Crab in the past for their own advantage. It is not likely to believe us or help us unless we present it with the organic rectifier itself.’ ‘Well,’ said Trasilika, ‘you want me to ask Ek for the return of the organic rectifier, even though you admit there’s little chance that he’ll agree. Isn’t it equally reasonable to send someone to petition the Crab? Even if the chances of the Crab agreeing are minimal?’
Justina looked at Log Jaris.
Log Jaris looked at Justina.
Then the bullman sighed, and said:
‘I will swim the Laitemata tonight. Sharks and seasnakes permitting, I’ll have an answer from the Crab by the morrow.’
‘Very well,’ said Trasilika. ‘We’ll meet again first thing tomorrow to see what the Crab says. But suppose we get refused by both Ek and the Crab? Suppose we have to fight it out? What then? Who will fight with us?’ ‘Varazchavardan,’ said Justina. ‘Aquitaine Varazchavardan. He’s a powerful sorcerer. He fears that Aldarch the Third will execute him because he was long in my service. Then there’s Nixorjapretzel Rat, who was once Varazchavardan’s apprentice. Perhaps Varazchavardan can persuade Jan Rat to our cause.’
‘Two sorcerers will hardly win us a victory against the combined powers of the Cabal House,’ said Trasilika.
‘If the wonder-workers run true to form,’ rumbled Log Jaris, ‘the first hint of trouble will see them board themselves up in that Cabal House until all the danger’s over. Besides, there are others who will fight for the Empress. Myself included.’
‘Even so,’ said Trasilika, ‘I don’t see how a couple of sorcerers and a handful of loyalists can storm the Temple of Torture. We need me n in force. There are none such.’ ‘There is always Jal Japone,’ said J ustina.
‘Japone?’ said Froissart in astonishment. ‘You mean — the warlord?’
‘Who else?’ said Justina. ‘There are some loyal Ebrell Islanders w ho would doubtless serve me as ambassadors if I asked them to. Dunash Labrat is one such man.’ ‘Labrat?’ said Trasilika. ‘I’ve never heard o f him.’
‘You wouldn’t have,’ said Justina, ‘for he is but a bee keeper and a maker of mead. However, he knows Jal Japone well, for he sheltered with the warlord when Wazir Sin was waging a pogrom against the Ebrell Islanders in Injiltaprajura.’
‘Why should Japone help us?’ said Trasilika suspiciously.
‘We will offer him much in the name of the Crab,’ said Justina. ‘We will offer him a monopoly on all liquor sales in Injiltaprajura from here to eternity. That bribe should be sufficient to guarantee his compliance.’
‘All right,’ said Trasilika decisively. ‘We’ll do it. First I’ll ask Ek for the organic rectifier. If he won’t hand it over, we’ll storm the Temple of Torture and take it. Once you’ve won us men from Jal Japone.’
‘But where does that leave me?’ said Froissart. ‘I can’t stand as sacrifice!’
‘Relax,’ said Justina. ‘This whole business will be over before the Festival of Light begins. It’ll do you no harm to be named as a sacrifice.’
‘She’s right,’ said Trasilika.
And all Jean Froissart’s protests were over-ruled.
A long discussion of details then followed. Then Justina Thrug took herself off in search of the Ebrell Islander Dunash Labrat, meaning to command him north to the lair of the warlord Jal Japone.
Justina was successful in her mission, and by noon Labrat was already on his way north.
Justina then made her way to the pink palace, where she received distressing intelligence. Master Ek had refused to release the organic rectifier, and had strengthened his claim to possession of this ‘skavamareen’ by announcing that it would be one of the sacrifices at the Festival of Light.
That meant that the fate of Injiltaprajura depended on the outcome of Log Jaris’s mission to the Crab that night — or, failing that, on the whims of the warlord Jal Japone. For Justina very much doubted that she could command sufficient force to storm the pink palace without help from the Crab or Japone, even supposing that Aquitaine Varazchavardan and Nixorjapretzel Rat were willing to help her.
Justina felt more than a little bitter.
All she needed was fifty men.
That was all.
Fifty staunch fighters and she could conquer Injiltaprajura.
With fifty Yudonic Knights she could have done it easily. Could have smashed down the doors of the Temple of Torture. Extricated the organic rectifier. Got it to Jod. Converted the Crab. And then, in alliance with that Power, could have swept her enemies into the sea.
But she had not fifty men.
Through all these years she had ruled Injiltaprajura with guile and cunning, with justice and discretion. But all that was to come to naught — for want of fifty men. Unless the Crab or Japone extended their charity to her. But, frankly… Justina was far from certain of getting help from either of those two Powers.
The Empress ascended to the palace roof, meaning to soothe her nerves by swimming in her rooftop pool. But Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin was there, labouring on the rebuilding of his airship, with Jan Rat working alongside him. Justina, loathe to disturb him in this enterprise — that ship might yet save her life, and Sken-Pitilkin seemed seldom in the mood to work on it — quietly withdrew.
Downstairs again, Justina withdrew to her study. When entering that room, she usually gave time to her aquarium. She liked to watch fish: delighted in the grace of the weightless creatures as they drifted through their world of water, peacock their rainbow, dragon their wish. But these days her first concern was always the saucer which sat in spendid isolation above that world, alone on an island inviolate, safe from the depredations of ants and other marauders.
Safe?
‘No!’ said Justina, with bitter disappointment.
There were ants on the egg. Six of them at least. Black flecks of malice, animated appetite devoid of scruples or ethics. They were eating it, surely.
Justina was devastated by this disaster. There was not one single corner of her world which was not threatened by death, horror, pain and pitiless cruelty. This at least she had hoped to salvage, this perfect egg and the miracle within. But she had failed. Even in this she had failed.
Her vision blurred. She squeezed her eyes tight shut. Then fat and hopeless tears began to blubber down her face. Everything in the world was vile, ugly and pitiless, and she did not think she could bear it any longer.
Then Justina calmed herself and, analytically — she had thought the defences she had devised for the egg to be perfect, but obviously she had erred — she began to investigate the scene of the disaster to see what defect in the fortifications the ants had discovered. But her most determined scrutiny failed to find the slightest flaw in the finemesh gauze which guarded the fishtank against invasion.
‘Yet the ants are there,’ said Justina in puzzlement. ‘They are there, are they not?’
She looked closer. No, the flecks were not ants at all. They were merely black flecks.
‘It’s rotten, then,’ said Justina in disgust. ‘It’s gone rotten.’
She displaced the soljamimpambagoya rocks, removed the gauze and retrieved the saucer. Then, overcome by a clinical curiosity, she decided to dissect the egg to see what kind of embryo had died within. She set the saucer down on her desk then rummaged in her cosmetics case, at length retrieving tweezers, a blackhead hook, a pustule needie and a pair of trimming scissors. These she laid out on the desk. Then she pulled up a chair so she could work at leisure in comfort.
The Empress Justina picked up the pustule needle, meaning to lance one of the flecks to release any liquid rot within. Then she stayed her hand. For the egg had changed. The half-dozen flecks had run together to form one ragged patch of darkness. A strangely sudden change! Unless…
Justina peered closely.
‘Well goodness gracious me!’ she said.
The darkness was not a blemish but a hole. A hole into the egg. And within, something was moving. Even as the Empress watched, something yellow and wan snouted out from the egg. A tiny something, so small it was hard to credit its flesh with autonomous existence.
‘My!’ said Justina in wonderment.
It was a dragon. The smallest of all the world’s dragons, and the first of its race to come into the world ab ovo. Its mother had been created ex nihilo by a demon acting on whim, and its mother was missing and possibly dead. Since the breed had demonstrated a capacity for parthenogenetic reproduction, the race might survive if this dragonet could be preserved.
‘But,’ said Justina, ‘as yet the thing is not even out of the egg.’
No. It was not out at all. And its struggles to escape from the egg looked to be as traumatic as the prolonged birth-struggle which so oft initiates a human into the world of women and men. Justina longed to help it, but restrained herself. For the brute instruments of steel laid out upon the desk were of formidable size when compared to a dragon so fragile, and she doubted her hand could sustain the delicacies of surgery which would have been required to assist the thing from its miniature shell.
So Justina watched until at last her dragon was free.
Now it has been said by some commentators that Justina Thrug never denied herself the smallest indulgence: that whatever she wanted to do, she did. But this is not true. She denied herself much and restrained herself often, as did she now. For what Justina truly wanted to do was to have the palace bells rung long and loud to celebrate the dragonbirth, to command parades and festivals and a General Prescription. She wished to rush forth and to cry (as Occasions demanded):
‘Tintinnabulate the tintinnabula!’
To hear bells, yes, and trumpets; to see smiles, yes, and laughter; to have uproar and gaiety, and a death to decorum. But Justina feared her people would think her mad were she to order such ceremonies for the hatching of this babiest of dragons. Furthermore, there was no alternative Occasion which she could reasonably propose as an excuse for an Outbreak. Therefore Justina denied herself pleasure and concentrated on the practicalities.
‘Food,’ said Justina.
Again she had recourse to her cosmetics case. She took some little balls of cotton wool. One she soaked in water and another in goat’s milk, which was fresh-fetched from the kitchen at her command. These cotton wool balls she placed upon the saucer so this tiniest of dragonets could suckle upon them at will. Then she took a corpse maggot (a delicacy also commanded from the kitchen) and chopped it up very finely, and upon the saucer she raised a little pyramid comprising the resulting shreds of this most delicate of meats.
One task alone remained before she returned her charge to its fishbowl sanctuary.
The dragon must be named.
‘I name thee… what? No, not what. You need more of a name than what. Untunchilamon bore thee, hence… Injiltaprajura I name thee.’
Injiltaprajura squirmed upon the blotting paper, which by now had soaked up most of the egg-slish of her hatching. Yet some organic aftermath of birth still clung to the dragon’s transparent scales. As Justina watched, Injiltaprajura opened her jaws, and began to lick herself clean with a tongue more slender than a cat’s whisker.
And Justina smiled, in triumph and in hope for the future.