Justina’s palace was large but not infinite. While it did contain treasury, dungeons, torture chambers (unused since the time of Wazir Sin), kitchens, bedrooms, a rooftop swimming pool and so on and so forth, it had only two large halls. One of these was the Star Chamber, site of legal hearings of all descriptions. The other was the Grand Hall where the petitions session had been held during the afternoon. It was the Grand Hall which was the site of the night’s banquet.
When Chegory and Uckermark entered the Grand Hall no people had yet seated themselves. The long tables, which formed three sides of a square, awaited yet. Justina’s ebony throne had been removed to make way for the Table of Honour, which was that from which the two Tables Lesser depended. But nobody had removed the starvation cage. Likewise, the shields of Wen Endex still adorned the walls. The revellers would disport themselves with those images of death and destruction ever within glance.
‘Where do we sit?’ said Chegory. ‘Anywhere? Or special places?’
While the Empress had personally invited him to the banquet he did not imagine for a moment that he would be sitting close to her. After all, Ivan Pokrov and Artemis Ingalawa had both banqueted at the pink palace on occasions past, and from what little they had said of it Chegory knew neither of them had been anywhere near the imperial person.
‘Nobody sits till the Empress enters,’ said Uckermark. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be told. Look around, look around.’
With that vague command, Uckermark disengaged himself from his young companion, abandoning Chegory in favour of conversation with one of the potent contacts he had made inside the palace since his first acquaintance with Justina.
Chegory wandered round the table, unaware that everyone in the room was studying him discretely. Justina’s latest! How long would he last? A night? A week? If more than a week, he would be a very miracle worker, for Justina was persistent in her quest for novelty. So had she been since she attained the age of sixteen. Then, while growing up in Galsh Ebrek, she had demonstrated the strength of her appetites [A long and weary catalogue has here been deleted on the grounds that this catalogue, together with its attendant gynaecological details, is intrinsically boring. By Order, Ostik Vo, Master of Philosophy.]
Chegory did not think of the bedtime ordeal that awaited him, of the moment when Justina would clutch him to her flesh, when he would have to prove his manhood truly or suffer imperial displeasure extreme. No. He did not think of it because, like all humans, he had a tremendous capacity for denying reality. Despite Uckermark’s hints and outright declarations, and despite the implications of everything which had happened to him since his arrival in the palace, young Chegory still thought he would escape from the palace with his virginity intact.
Thus our Ebrell Islander thought not of bed, but worried instead about the banquet. How would he cope with the intricacies of the grandiose protocol such an occasion would surely demand? The table itself intimidated him. Crystal glittering and stabs likewise ashine. Linen as white as the snow which lies on the ground here in the Mountains of the Moon — not that the comparison to snow would have occurred to Chegory, who had never seen such a substance.
‘If you would excuse me for a moment, sir.’
This from a waiter busy distributing sheets of parchment. One for every place, to join the small dishes of pineapple chunks and coconut squares and the fragrant mosquito coils softly smoking. Chegory stepped back from the table.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the waiter, putting down another parchment.
This was Chegory’s first encounter with a proper waiter, and the young Ebrell Islander was so disconcerted by the man’s lordly manner that he took him for a high-ranking civil servant at the very least. Nevertheless, he plucked up courage sufficient to ask:
‘What are those?’
‘Those, sir, are mosquito coils.’
‘I mean the — the document things, what you’re giving out.’
Chegory asked because he could not read the Toxteth scriptwork which adorned the parchments. As he could only read and write Ashmarlan he was virtually illiterate for the purposes of practical life on Untunchilamon.
‘These, sir, are prescriptions,’ said the waiter. ‘Prescriptions?’ said Chegory.
‘Indeed. For how can we have wine without prescriptions? Further, how can we have a banquet without wine?’ ‘Prescriptions,’ said Chegory, still puzzling it out. ‘You mean — you mean all these people are sick?’
‘They are indeed,’ said the waiter. ‘A tragedy, young sir! There is, you see, a staggering degree of ill health in Untunchilamon’s ruling class. Why, here is Lord Idaho’s script. Two beers for his poor digestion, five glasses of wine for the pain of his war wounds and a double brandy to help with his flat feet.’
‘Flat feet?’ said Chegory. ‘You can cure flat feet with brandy?’
‘I, young sir?’ said the waiter, whisking further prescriptions into place. ‘I am but a waiter, hence nothing I can heal. But doctors, young sir — ah, their skills would grace a very miracle worker!’
‘You mean,’ said Chegory, following the swift-moving waiter, ‘they can really cure flat feet with alcohol?’
‘Cure?’ said the waiter. ‘A strong word, surely! For it implies a degree of certain resolution which your bravest philosophers will tell you is quite impossible in a world so chancy. Nay, young sir. Your best physician can often work his miracles, yet cannot attempt such feats impossible. Speak not of cures. Speak rather of treatment.’
‘Treatment?’ persisted Chegory.
‘Certainly! Balm, soothing, comfort. For such is alcohol the world’s best medicine. Hence here we have in plenty treatments for ague and palsy, for goitre and hernia, the multiplication of chins and the distension of the belly, the loss of potency or an excess of the same, for snakebite, old wounds and varicose veins, for fits of elation and for dooms of despair.’
By now the waiter’s progress had taken him almost to the centre of the Table of Honour.
‘Here sits Uckermark,’ said the waiter, putting down a parchment. ‘The corpse master. I know him well. He stuffed my grandmother three years ago. Still she looks as good as new.’
The waiter moved a single place closer to the centre. He stood with the starvation cage just behind him and scanned the parchment in his hand.
‘Young sir,’ said he, ‘are you by chance a victim of anaemia?’
‘So I’m told,’ said Chegory doubtfully.
‘If a doctor told you, it must be true. An Ebrell Islander, thus it says here. Chegory Guy by name. The name is your own?’
‘It is,’ said Chegory.
‘Then here you sit,’ said the waiter, and with a flourish he deposited Chegory’s prescription in the place to the left of Uckermark’s.
‘Then whose place is that?’ said Chegory, as the waiter deposited the next parchment.
‘This?’ said the waiter. ‘This place belongs to a lady fair who suffers from… let us say insomnia. That is the polite way of putting it, is it not?’
Then he winked, which was quite unprofessional of him, then went on his way.
Chegory wandered off to find Uckermark, but had not yet located the corpse master when trumpets flared and silenced all chatter in the Grand Hall. In came guards bearing naked scimitars. Then the Empress Justina entered upon the banqueting chamber. She waved gaily to her subjects as she made her way to her place.
Which was…
Which was the central seat at the Table of Honour.
Right by that assigned to Chegory Guy.
But surely, surely…
‘A mistake,’ said Chegory, as someone grabbed his arm. ‘There’s been a mistake.’
‘You’re telling me,’ said Juliet Idaho. ‘Come on! Don’t keep the Empress waiting!’
So saying, the Yudonic Knight steered Chegory toward the Table of Honour. He drove his fingers deep into the young man’s bicep.
‘Remember what I told you!’
‘Stabs,’ said Chegory. ‘Yes, yes, stabs, I remember, not to touch, no steel, no touching. Eat with my fingers, everything, fish, soup, the lot.’
‘Eat soup with your spoon, fool!’ said Idaho. ‘But the rest with your fingers, certainly. One hand on a stab, and that’s it! Wwwhst! Off with your head! See the muscle?’
‘I see it,’ said Chegory.
He saw the scimitarists standing to either side of the starvation cage and knew they were the muscle to which Idaho referred. They could be upon him in a moment. Slicing off his head!
‘So watch yourself,’ said Idaho, his threat pitched low, meant for Chegory’s ears alone.
Then he gave the Ebrell Islander a push which sent him staggering forward. The Empress Justina smiled on him. At all three tables the guests were standing by their chairs. Waiting to be seated. Chegory felt dizzy. Panic-stricken. He longed to run, flee, sprint from the pink palace and bury himself forever in the deepest part of the underworld.
Chegory reached the table.
A servant pulled out his chair.
What now? Presumably the Empress would seat herself, then her guests would take their places.
Chegory waited.
Beaded sweat rolled down his forehead.
‘Sit!’ hissed Uckermark, his mouth but a fingerlength from Chegory’s ear.
What was right? To sit, or not to sit? Surely he couldn’t ‘You’re guest of honour,’ whispered Uckermark frantically. ‘You! Sit sit sit!’
Chegory sat.
The rest of the guests followed suit with a great scraping of chairs, soon followed by a swelling murmur of remark, expostulation and outright gossip. Still the Empress was standing. Was something wrong? Chegory risked a quick glance over his shoulder. The muscle to either side of the starvation cage had not moved. But it was there. Ready. Waiting. The muscle was in the form of two huge men with bullock-breaking thews, their faces impassive as they stood leaning on the hilts of bare-bladed scimitars, the points of which rested on blocks of cork to preserve their sharpness.
Still, still the Empress stood. The chair to her left was empty. Was she waiting for another guest?
Round the table there was a regular tinkling clatter. What? People were pulling off rings, brooches and other baubles. Tossing them so they fell amidst crystal glasses, polished silver, white porcelain. Chegory, who was ignorant of the customs Justina’s father had brought with him from Galsh Ebrek, was totally incapable of fathoming the import of this simple ceremony.
The last ring was, temporarily, discarded.
Then, and only then, did Justina sit, exhaling a happy sigh as she ensconced herself in the chair next to Chegory Guy. He stood instandy, as a sign of respect.
‘Sit!’ said the Empress in a peremptory tone. Then, as he complied, she went on (more mildly): ‘Silly boy! You didn’t think you could run away, did you?’
To Chegory’s surprise, even at banquet she spoke in Toxteth. Now all acknowledge that the language of Wen Endex is good enough for war, at which the Yudonic Knights are expert. Yet it is entirely unfit for social intercourse at the highest levels, for it lacks the subtle honorifics and diminutives by which the ever-hinting Jan-juladoola allows lessers in their every utterance to honour betters and betters to impress upon lessers the inferiority of the latter.
‘My lady,’ said Chegory, ‘I exist only to serve.’
This he had hastily rehearsed but a few moments before, and — better still! — he had rehearsed it in Janjuladoola. For ‘my lady’ he used Janjuladoola’s ‘thayalamantalajora’, which translates literally as ‘goddess surpassing’. From the nine forms of‘I’ which were available to him he had chosen (correctly) the word ‘varacasondundra’, literally ‘myself a worm’. It came out perfectly.
Still, even though the Ebrell Islander surprised the universe by choosing language proper and words correct for this pretty little offering, it must be observed that what he came out with was cliched and unoriginal in the extreme. But then, Chegory Guy had no prior experience in dealing with imperial power, and must perforce fall back on stereotyped dialogue stolen straight from the legends of hero-princes and such.
While young Chegory was still complimenting himself on his successful survival of the first of his many trials in the halls of grace, Justina’s albinotic ape Vazzy was brought to the table and installed in the previously empty chair to the left of the Empress. On this occasion the installation included the attachment of the creature to its specially weighted throne by means of leather ankle cuffs. At the last banquet, Vazzy had indulged his passion for staging tournaments at table once too often, and Justina had at last come to the conclusion that a rampaging ape is not an ornament to an evening’s entertainment.
Once installed, the imperial favourite regarded Chegory quizzically, then extended its paw.
‘Well, Chegory,’ said the Empress. ‘Where are your manners?’
Chegory sought for words but found none, therefore did but stare at Empress and ape, acting for all the world as if his tongue had been tied after the manner of the torturers of Lower Sladvonia. Given his lack of social sophistication, his attack of verbal constipation is understandable. After all, the hero-prince legends which had supplied his dialogue till then make no mention of the niceties of protocol which arise when a common rock gardener has social intercourse with an ape imperial.
‘Go on!’ said Justina. ‘Give him your hand.’
Chegory was to — to what? Cut off his hand and present it to the ape as a token of fealty? He looked around wildly. Guards in their frowning menace stood but a footfall away from him, their scimitars at the ready. Vazzy rescued Chegory from his indecision. The pink-eyed ape lunged, grabbed Chegory’s hand and hauled on it. Chegory hauled back. Sweating. Panting. Biting his lip. His thick Ebrell Island fingers were now directly above Justina’s lap. They were but a finger length from — from Gods!
‘You silly boy!’ said Justina, with a windchime laugh. ‘Shake his hand and he’ll let yours go!’
Shake his hand? Why? Chegory had no idea, but nevertheless jerked the ape’s paw several times. To his relief, Vazzy then released him. Chegory snatched his hand away as if it had been scalded. He slumped back in his seat. A solicitous attendant mopped away the sweat now streaming from his brow. Chegory endured these ministrations without protest, then realised a waiter was questioning him.
‘What?’ he said.
Chegory was startled by his own over-loud voice, by the note of shark-flavoured brutality in the single vocable. A moment later he realised (to his horror!) that he had asked his question in his native Dub, instead of phrasing his query in fragrant Janjuladoola or (second-best, surely — but the Empress used it) good honest Toxteth.
The waiter repeated his question using the politest forms of Janjuladoola imaginable, yet still managing to convey a weary sense of infinite superiority:
‘Mead, sir? Or wine?’
‘A — a physician has prescribed mead for my anaemia,’ said Chegory, stumbling slightly as he rendered this simplicity in Janjuladoola. He had conceived an immediate fear of the waiter, which was quite natural given the waiter’s massive sense of superiority and Chegory’s increasing nervousness.
‘Those doctors will over-prescribe!’ said Justina. ‘Give him the wine, it’s much safer.’
‘My lady has a degree from the College of Medicine,’ murmured the wine waiter, ‘therefore one trusts her judgement implicitly.’
The qualification in question was an honorary degree, but the waiter made no mention of this as he poured wine for Chegory (the guest of honour), then for the Empress, and then (since the ape was in possession of a medical certificate signed by the Veterinarian Imperial) for Vazzy.
‘Thank you,’ said Chegory, truly grateful that the Empress had descended (as it were) from her seat amidst the stars to deal so expediently with the waiter.
He congratulated himself for saying his thanks in Janjuladoola. Then was horrorstruck. He had used the familiar form! He had said efkarindorenskomiti, the word by which a friend thanks a friend, or (for this is a very familiar form indeed!) which a lover uses to supplement a kiss just a few moments after orgasm. The word he should have used to express his thanks was (of course) dundaynarbardina-dorsklo, for thus and only thus should a slave or similar address a power imperial.
Such lapses of etiquette are not to be taken lightly. In the court of Aldarch the Third (who, for all that can be said against him, is ever at pains to improve the manners of his people) many have been instantly executed for lapses in protocol far less extreme. But the Empress Justina merely laughed. She was delighted!
‘I’m so glad we’re getting to know each other better,’ she said.
Though she spoke in Toxteth, her words implied that she had caught every nuance of Chegory’s Janjuladoola. So what could he say? That he didn’t mean it like that at all? ‘Thank you,’ he said, helplessly.
Only this time he said it in Toxteth, a language which offered him far fewer opportunities to make those social gaffes which are almost inevitable when an inept linguist endeavours to grapple with the delicious intricacies of Janjuladoola.
Before Chegory had a chance to embarrass himself further, Justina’s white ape hooted in pleasurable anticipation. A white-faced figure gorgeously adorned in robes embroidered with moray eels and scorpion fish was approaching the Empress. However, the ape was to be disappointed, for Aquitaine Varazchavardan remembered what had happened at the last banquet, and halted well out of ape-grabbing distance.
‘Hello there,’ cooed the Empress Justina, with a sly smile upon her lips. ‘What can we do for you today, young man?’ Varazchavardan was not young, otherwise he might have lost control of his temper there and then. Instead, the albino tic sorcerer cleared his throat and said, as banquet protocol compelled him to:
‘My most honoured lady, as Master of Law I ask on behalf of myself and of your assembled guests that we be excused the ritual of confession.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Justina. ‘What do you think, Chegory'? Should we spare the man confession?’
This comment most naturally brought the attention of the Master of Law to bear on young Chegory Guy, who could but stare helplessly at Varazchavardan. The terrified Ebrell Islander looked for all the world like a dormouse surprised by a cobra.
All Chegory could think of was the scene Downstairs where the sorcerer had fought his way free from the Malud marauders who had taken him prisoner. Varazchavardan had sent fire shooting outwards from his body, with dual consequences. First, the elderly pirate holding a knife to Varazchavardan’s throat had let him go. Second, the liquor with which the floor was awash had ignited, causing the sorcerer to be almost instantly engulfed in flames. Obviously, he had survived.
Equally obviously, to judge from the look he gave young Chegory, he remembered.
‘Well, Chegory?’ said Justina gently. ‘Do we spare him confessions or not?’
‘Sp- spare me,’ said the terrified Chegory. ‘Please!’
‘He spares you,’ said Justina to Varazchavardan. ‘Isn’t that nice of him? One day, we must spare you not. I’d be most interested in hearing your confessions, Vazzy darling. Most interested.’
Aquitaine Varazchavardan concealed his intense dislike of the insulting diminutive with which the Empress Justina had addressed him. Instead, he bowed very low, then said: ‘My lady’s wisdom is exceeded only by her personal grace and beauty.’
Then Varazchavardan bowed lower yet, then turned about-face. As the Master of Law began to walk away, Justina offered her ape a bit of coconut.
‘Vazzy,’ she said, pitching her voice to carry. Varazchavardan turned, only to see Justina’s ape accepting the proffered delicacy from the fingers imperial. Justina smiled sweetly at Varazchavardan. He stared back. If looks could kill, the Empress Justina would have been crisped to the bone then and there. If looks could kill, there would have been instant genocide on Untunchilamon. Sailors would have screamed aloud as they met a mortal end on ships far out upon the striding seas. A swathe of devastation would have cut its way across entire continents. Princes in cities far distant would have fallen from thrones of glory with blood by the bucketful vomiting from their throats. In caves far deep within the mountains huge dragons would have roared in strenuous agony, then kicked in pain and rage, and then expired. Such was the look which Varazchavardan bestowed upon Justina.
The Empress smiled again, every bit as sweetly as before, and Varazchavardan turned and stalked away. Whereupon Justina’s ape picked up a mosquito coil and hurled it at the retreating Master of Law. It hit Varazchavardan in the back, provoking a little tittering from some of the less sophisticated wits sitting at table, but the wonderworker ignored the onslaught and walked on as if nothing had happened.
‘Now now,’ said Justina, in tones of mild reproof. ‘That’s very naughty, Vazzy. You mustn’t do things like that.’ Whereupon Vazzy grinned prodigiously, hooted thrice, then began to devour the saucer of pineapple chunks which the Empress Justina pushed his way. Meanwhile, an aloof waiter promenaded into the half-open square between the three long banquet tables, retrieved the still-smoking mosquito coil then retired with the offending object.
It is to be noted that albino tic apes are very rare and hard to come by, that Aquitaine Varazchavardan had long been in Justina’s service before she acquired her pet, and that the privilege of naming the animal had been hers and hers alone. Chegory, who was ignorant of this, and innocent enough to presume the confusion of names to be a coincidence, had nevertheless perceived Varazchavardan’s anger. Indeed, he had experienced a (possibly psychosomatic) chest pain as he saw Varazchavardan’s clear-writ wrath, Chegory, in his ignorance, could only presume that it was the provocation of his own presence which had so angered the Master of Law, and that even now Varazchavardan would be planning a special doom for the hapless Ebrell Islander who had so excited his anger. He turned to Uckermark, meaning to ask him for advice, but the corpse master was intent on the over-perfumed woman to his right, a luscious young thing who was smattering away to him as if he were her lover true.
‘Chegory,’ said Justina. ‘Your wine. You haven’t even touched it yet.’
‘I–I-’
‘You’re not going to refuse your medicine, are you? Be a good boy. Drink it up. There’s plenty more where that came from.’
This was tantamount to an invitation to get roaring drunk. Indeed, to judge from the speed at which fellow guests were demolishing their prescription medicine, and the alacrity with which their empty glasses were being refilled, such behaviour would have passed without remark. Nevertheless, Chegory sipped most cautiously at his own glass.
‘You look worried, my dear,’ said Justina. ‘What is it?’ ‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Chegory.
‘Not the wine, I hope?’
‘No, no, it’s — it’s lovely wine.’
‘Then… the table things, Chegory? You’re not worried about those, are you? First will be soup, that’s what the spoons are for. Then a meat dish. For that we use stabs, then — ah, but here’s the soup! I do hope it’s all right. It’s the special creation of my new chef, you know. Pelagius Zozimus, that’s his name.’
‘Zozimus!’ said Chegory desperately, seizing his opportunity and plunging right in. ‘There’s, there’s something I have to tell you about him. He’s not a chef at all, he’s an elf, an elven lord, that’s what he is, Downstairs, I saw him Downstairs with sworders with him, all in bright armour he was, really, truly, believe me.’
‘Oh Chegory!’ said Justina, waving away his desperation to the tune of a tinkling laugh. ‘You do amuse me! An elf? Chegory darling, there are no such things as elves. An elven lord, with an army in armour Downstairs? A delightful conceit, my dearest, but save it for my amusement till I’ve had a bit more to drink.’
Thus Chegory’s opportunity to denounce Zozimus arrived, was seized, and came to nothing. His soup was set before him and he began to eat, sampling each spoonful of the nutritious broth with the same caution he had used when trying the wine.
‘We do have foodtasters, you know,’ said Justina, observing his hesitation. ‘Here, give me that.’ So saying, she exchanged bowls with him. ‘There! You trust that? It’s meant for the lips imperial. Eat, my darling! You want to keep your strength up, don’t you?’
‘Yes, my lady,’ said Chegory.
Then blushed with such fury that his embarrassment visibly overwhelmed the native red of his skin. Justina laughed uproariously, then drank of her wine, then coughed, choked and almost died, for she was laughing still as she drank.
Chegory got through the soup (very good flying fish soup, thickened with sea urchin roe). Then the soup bowls were whisked away and plates of mixed meats materialised in their place. The chef had excelled himself. On Chegory’s plate there were bits of cat, dog, monkey, rat, goat, banana frog, crow, vulture, groper, gecko and lizard. His mouth watered. His hand automatically reached for the stab. But just before his fingers fell on the lethal steel he remembered — and wrenched his hand away as if it had been burnt.
Justina’s stab was already at work. It flashed to left and to right as she hunted succulent fragments of fine-chopped luxury. She popped her first skewer-load into her mouth, sucked it off, then chewed. She was sweating as she ate, for she was a very fleshy woman, and both air and meat were hot. Chegory was sweating also. He had yet to touch his meat.
‘You have many girlfriends, I suppose,’ said Justina, pausing between skewer-loads.
‘None at the moment,’ said Chegory, fearing Olivia Qasaba might be brutally disposed of if Justina learnt of her existence.
‘None?’ said Justina. ‘What a tragedy! Young women have no taste. No taste at all. Or is it your work that puts them off?’
‘Work?’
‘In the corpse shop.’
Only then did Chegory remember that the Empress Justina believed him to be apprenticed to the corpse master Uckermark. She thought he worked all day with bowel and brain, with the stench of corpses unclean, stuffing, embalming or dismembering as required.
‘The, um, well, job, it’s a job, okay, no job no money no food and all that, but, ah, oh well, I suppose I–I wish the people weren’t so, so… well, so dead.’
Too fast, too fast, he was talking too fast, making a fool of himself. What would the Empress think? He must slow himself, slow down, one word to a mouthful.
‘Pah!’ said Justina. ‘You dislike the dead? Then what are we eating? Why, dead meat! Dead frogs, dead fish, dead birds. Corpses. Carcasses. Are we not animals? With the appetites of animals? The desires? The lusts?’
‘Some of us,’ said Chegory carefully.
‘You’re not a castrato, are you?’
This, coming from the Empress, was a joke. She had already perused Chegory’s medical file. She knew as much about him as a wife of ten years — or more. But Chegory thought the query was in earnest.
‘As it happens,’ said Chegory, ‘no, I’m not a… a castrato.’
He was feeling more and more uncomfortable. Once more he wanted to flee. He was intensely aware of Justina dragonising him. As if he were prey.
‘A vegetarian, then?’ said Justina, since Chegory was still abstaining from his food.
‘No, not that either,’ said Chegory.
Then realised his mistake. By pleading vegetarianism he could have excused himself from tackling the meat dish which he must now surely feed upon lest he cause offence. He plucked a piece of banana frog from his plate. Munched it.
‘Not with your fingers, Chegory darling,’ said Justina. ‘Use the stab. That’s what it’s there for. To eat meat.’
‘You’ll have to excuse him,’ said Uckermark, momentarily disengaging his attention from the coquette to his right. ‘He’s not versed in his table manners.’ ‘Ah, but we’ll teach him,’ said Justina. ‘We’ll teach him… everything!’
Corpse master and Empress exchanged a laugh. Then the coquette claimed Uckermark once more and Chegory was on his own.
‘That stab,’ said Justina impatiently. ‘Pick it up!’
Chegory' hesitated still.
‘Here,’ she said, picking up his stab and forcing it into his reluctant fingers. ‘Hold it like that, see? Now stick it into the meat. There! Easy, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Chegory.
Blurting out the word in blurred tones but a heartbeat from tears or panic. He hunched his head down, his shoulders up, desperately trying to make himself a more difficult target for the decapitating scimitar he expected to strike at any moment.
‘Try it again,’ said Justina in her most encouraging voice.
Chegory complied.
‘Good, good!’ said the Empress. ‘You see? You can do it if you try. Very well! Now feed me!’
‘Now…?’'
‘Feed me! You know! Stab in the meat, meat in my mouth. Come on, Chegory darling. It’s fun!’
‘I… I can’t. I mustn’t!’
‘Of course you can! Of course you must! It’s an imperial command, isn’t it? We can’t have high treason at table, can we now? Come on, Chegory! Stab in meat, meat in my mouth! Let’s do it by the numbers, shall we? Number one, stab in meat.’
Chegory tried to obey. But his hand refused to obey his will. So the Empress Justina closed her own hot, sweating fingers about his hand and guided his stab into a piece of meat. Then pulled Chegory’s stab-holding hand to her mouth. She sucked off the meat. Grinned at him.
‘Easy, isn’t it? You do it now.’
Hesitantly, he complied. He raised cold steel to the mouth of the Empress. She opened her lips, revealing a dangling uvula, a tongue, a dozen ragged brown teeth, a glistening cavity where food fragments danced amidst saliva. Her lips accepted a piece of dog liver from his stab.
Then Justina skewered a titbit from her own plate and fed it to Chegory. He returned the compliment. They executed this joint manoeuvre again. Then again.
‘My! What white fangs you have!’ said Justina.
‘I chew pandanus,’ said Chegory.
‘Ah yes,’ said Justina. ‘That’s the way to keep them in order. Pandanus in plenty — and stay way from the sugarcane.’
‘Yes, my lady,’ said Chegory.
‘Call me Juzzy,’ said Justina. ‘And I’ll call you… Cheggy. You like that name?’
‘I… um… yes, my lady. Cheggy will do fine.’
‘Splendid!’ said Justina, and opened her mouth to accept another fragment of meat.
Chegory was starting to get confident. He glanced at the scimitarists. They had not moved. The muscle men were still standing immobile, the points of their razorblade weapons still resting on blocks of cork.
‘That’s good,’ said Justina, as Chegory fed her once again. ‘You’re getting the hang of it. Now faster!’
‘Faster?’
‘Yes, faster! You know. Speed, Chegory, speed! Fun!’
Chegory did not think it fun at all, but nevertheless hastened his fingers. Justina accelerated her own hand in response. From plate to mouth flew their stabs. In — out! In — out! Swift as lightning their dancing steel flashed. Cat meat! Frog meat! Poultry! Dog! To lips to mouth to lips to Home went Chegory’s steel!
‘Aagh!’
The Empress Justina wrenched her head back.
Chegory had stabbed her in the lower lip.
‘You cut me!’ said Justina.
Chegory dropped his stab. The bloodstained steel tinkled to his plate. The Empress Justina was clutching her lip. Chegory could not breathe, or speak, or move. Slowly the Empress withdrew her bloodstained hand. She turned her terrible eyes upon young Chegory Guy. She announced his doom:
‘You must kiss it better.’
‘I must…?’
The entire banqueting hall was silent. Even the waiters were watching. Justina placed one fleshy hand round the back of Chegory’s neck and drew him toward her. He could not resist. A roar of applause erupted from the guests as Chegory’s lips touched those of his Empress. Still she pulled him on and in. Hot and wet was her mouth, hot and wet, her tongue forcing its way into his own oral cavity as her hand fondled his neck in a rhythm suggestive of greater pleasures yet to come.
Then, mercifully, she released him.
‘Ah!’ she said. ‘Pure pleasure, is it not?’
‘Indeed, my lady,’ said Chegory, hot and shaken, sweating and trembling, dazed and bestaggered.
‘Juzzy,’ said the Empress Justina. ‘Have you forgotten already, Cheggy- my love?’
‘I… I’m sorry, uh, Juzzy.’
‘That’s better! But don’t forget again!’
Chegory^ promised most sincerely that he would not forget — and the banquet proceeded.