The island of Jod.
What and where?
‘What’ is easy enough. It was the home of the Hermit Crab and also of the marvellous building of imported white marble which housed the Analytical Institute. ‘Where’ is equally easy. The island of Jod lay — and lies still, one presumes — in the middle of the Laitemata Harbour. To the north, the mainland of Untunchilamon and the city of Injiltaprajura. To the south, the minor island of Scimitar, then the Outer Lagoon, the last reef rocks and the limitless blue sea beyond.
What and where are accounted for. So what about why? The hell with why! This is a history book, not a treatise on philosophy. If the island of Jod had, in any sense, a ‘why’, it is not for us to enquire into it.
Who, then.
A question more worth asking.
There were many people on Jod. There was, for example, Ivan Pokrov, head of the Analytical Institute. Then there were algorithmists, mechanics, kitchen hands and others. But let us start at the bottom. Let us start with the lowest of the low, which must mean, of course, that we find ourselves starting with an Ebrell Islander.
With, to be precise, young Chegory Guy.
When do we start with him?
In the morning. Not the early morning, where we left the conjurer Odolo staring aghast at a bowl full of scorpions. Not the mid-morning, either, for we have passed over that in silence. No, we start with Chegory Guy in the late morning, at the tail end of istarlat.
It was late morning on the island of Jod, and, as per usual, Chegory Guy at work on the rock gardens. He was proud of his job, and of his reputation as a good, reliable worker who needed no supervision. Stupid Ebby! His pride was grossly misplaced. Despite all his endeavours, no rock under his care ever enlarged itself by so much as a fingerlength. His rocks were sterile, and did not multiply. Barren were his labours, and bitter were the fruits thereof.
[It is doubtful that this criticism is seriously intended. While the Originator doubtless hates and despises Ebbies (and who can blame him?) he here appears to be making an ill-advised attempt to indulge in humour. Unlike market gardeners, rock gardeners are neither required nor expected to fecundate the earth. Habble Skim argues that crystal flowers are known to grow in deep desert, and that the rocks of Untunchilamon may possess a similar potential for enlargement. They do not. Here I speak from personal knowledge. An alternative theory has been advanced by Gin Anvil, who claims that insanity is here in evidence. But is it? While that is a possibility, it is hard to locate another passage where the Originator deviates even slightly from accepted dogma regarding the nature and potential of the physical universe. Therefore, while I do not claim to understand the attraction of ‘humour’ (and would regard any insinuation that I am a ‘humorist’ as being libellous) I nevertheless believe that all evidence and research supports my contention that we are here in the presence of a joke. Drax Lira, Redactor Major.]
Nevertheless, Chegory was happy in his work, even though his pride in his labours was fatuous. However, he was scarcely going to get rich through such employment, since his job paid him but five damns a day.
Untunchilamon still used the official currency of the Izdimir Empire, in which there are forty damns to a single dalmoon and ten dalmoons to a dragon, with each dragon containing one standard pearlweight of basilisk-grade gold. Note that the dalmoon herementioned is not to be confused with the coin of identical name which is used in Dalar ken Halvar solely for the ritual purchase of aborted foetuses. Note also that in the Malud of Asral, ‘dalmoon’ denotes a gaff-rigged boat rather than an item of coinage.
Things are unlikely to have changed since my departure from Injiltaprajura, so a traveller planning a visit to Untunchilamon should be able to rely on the imperial coinage. However, if one is starting out from Obooloo, please note that the turquoise strings so often used as a medium of exchange in the markets of Ang find scant acceptance on Untunchilamon, where money-changers will give you naught but ten per cent of their customary value. The money-changers are also highly suspicious of the spings, flothens, ems and zeals issued by Obooloo’s Bondsman’s Guild. On the other hand, saladin rings are treated as cash, just as they are in the imperial heartland, and have a similar purchasing power.
With that noted, let us return to Chegory Guy, still rock gardening on Jod, and still earning no more than five damns a day. In Injiltaprajura, a damn buys no more than it buys in Obooloo, and five damns will scarcely purchase a kiss, far less one of the greater pleasures. Thus we see that Chegory was without a doubt impoverished. However, his needs were few. He got his lunch for free, and paid but fifty damns a month to board at the Dromdanjerie. Hence he managed.
Chegory was still working some time later when the noon bells rang out. Their brazen voices carried clearly across the sun-hammered waters of the Laitemata. Young Chegory quit work and took lunch to the Hermit Crab. He emptied lunch (two pails of broken meat) into the trough in front of the Crab’s cave. Then he lingered, wondering if he dare ask the Hermit Crab what had happened the night before.
What had made the lights go out, the dogs of the city wake, and rainbows burst across the sky? The Crab should know, for the Crab was (at least by reputation) omniscient. Chegory was curious; he wanted to know for the sake of knowing. Furthermore, if he won a reply from Jod’s most notable resident, it would give him the confidence to ask for help with graver matters.
What Chegory really wanted to do was to change his race. His skin marked him for what he was. Thanks to his genetic inheritance, he could never escape the relentless categorising of a society which regarded him with (at the least) disdain. Consequently, Chegory had developed two elaborate lines of daydream, one pessimistic, the other optimistic, but both offering certain attractions unavailable in reality.
At times, he imagined himself transformed into a rock. A solid, inert object disregarded entirely by the public which trampled it underfoot. To some people, this would be the stuff of nightmare, but Chegory drew pleasure from such inauspicious reverie because as a rock he was safe from scorn, immune to pain, a world removed from injury. In his more optimistic daydreams, he changed not into a rock but into — into something else. It mattered not what, as long as that something was not an Ebby. He longed to clothe his soul in the flesh of an Ashdan, or to garb his spirit in the smoke-grey of the Janjuladoola people of the imperial heartland. Even the pallor of the people of Wen Endex appealed, though aesthetes everywhere despise it.
Since Chegory worked in such close proximity to the Hermit Crab, and daily served lunch to that entity, he was ever aware that the stuff of fancy could be made the stuff of flesh, or (to put it another way) that his red-skinned flesh could be made into something more to the world’s fancy. But he had never yet been able to nerve himself up to ask the Crab for assistance.
‘What,’ said the Hermit Crab, ‘are you waiting for?’
Chegory did not dare speak his mind. He did not ask for miracles. Instead, he meekly asked: ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’
To which the Hermit Crab answered: ‘Stand out of my sunlight.’
Chegory took the lunch pails back to the lunch pail stand, where they would remain until the butcher’s boy who brought the Crab’s daily meal to Jod refilled them on the morrow. Then Chegory washed his hands in a free-flowing fountain. Then he dressed for lunch.
To work in the blazing sun Chegory wore a loincloth and boots. An odd combination but one appropriate to his job, since he was often putting his toes in danger by sledgehammering rocks. For lunch, he put a light knee-length robe over his loincloth. Later in the day, when it was time to leave Jod, he would change into his evening wear, which was long lightweight linen trousers and a lightweight longsleeved shirt, both worn primarily as a defence against night’s mosquitoes.
This history has concerns weightier than fashions to deal with but those who have an interest in such things will note that this was fairly standard wear for males of the lower classes on Untunchilamon, except that most would go barefoot or wear sandals rather than encumbering themselves with boots. Lower-class females, however, would wear trousers and shirt exclusively, regardless of the time of day. People of a higher station, such as Ivan Pokrov or Artemis Ingalawa, would tend to wear ankle-length robes at all times, while sorcerers would never be seen dead or alive in anything other than long, flowing silken robes most richly embroidered.
Thus clothing.
When Chegory had washed his hands and had dressed for lunch he entered the white marble building which housed the Analytical Institute. There the windchimes sang:
Tangle tongle schtingle schtong…
It was the season of Fistavlir, the Long Dry. Yet even so, there was just enough wind to idle the chimes into music.
Meanwhile, back on the mainland — but you have guessed already. Of course. The conjurer Odolo, Official Keeper of the Imperial Sceptre, was in the treasury. And had found the imperial sceptre lying on the floor where the hand of a thief had discarded it. And Odolo’s heart was hammering, for the wishstone, priceless ornament of that sceptre, was gone!
By the time Chegory Guy was ready to sit down to his own lunch on the island of Jod, Odolo had already raised the alarm, and troops were already beginning the search for the guilty — or for scapegoats. But Chegory knew nothing of that, therefore his appetite for his lunch was entirely unspoiled. He was feeling hungry, relaxed and tolerably happy as he strode into the formal dining room.
The usual company was there, politely waiting for Chegory to enter before they seated themselves. There was the olive-skinned Ivan Pokrov, head of the Analytical Institute and master of the Analytical Engine. The Ashdan mathematician Artemis Ingalawa, who had been labouring as usual to develop algorithms for the use of the aforesaid engine. Olivia Qasaba, who had worked all morning in the Dromdanjerie before making her way to Jod. Last but not least, Chegory’s coeval Ox No Zan, the foreign student who had come all the way from Babrika to study under Ivan Pokrov. Today young No was looking decidedly miserable because he had an appointment that afternoon with Doctor Death the dentist.
As Chegory entered the room there was a scraping of chairs as these habitual dinner companions seated themselves. All but Ingalawa, who had one thing she had to do before she relaxed.
‘What’s for lunch?’ said Chegory.
‘Sea slugs,’ said Olivia.
‘Oh, good,’ said Chegory, with predictable enthusiasm.
‘And flying fish,’ said Olivia.
‘Better still!’ said Chegory, pulling out a chair as if to sit.
‘Hands!’ said Ingalawa.
This hand-check was the one duty restraining her from relaxation. She took it very seriously indeed.
Reluctantly Chegory extended his paws.
‘I did wash them,’ he said. ‘Right after I fed the Hermit Crab. I gave them a good wash.’
‘They’re filthy!’ said Ingalawa. ‘Look! Black gunge under the nails!’
Chegory blushed so fiercely that the flush was visible even though he was redskinned to start with.
‘Well, what do you expect,’ he said. ‘That’s rock gardening for you.’
‘You’ve got rakes, shovels and god knows what. Why do you need to go grubbing about with your hands?’ ‘Because,’ said Chegory. ‘It’s technical.’
‘What’s technical about rocks?’ said Ingalawa.
‘If you must know,’ said Chegory. ‘I was cleaning out the grease trap, you know, where all the kitchen water-’ ‘What on earth were you doing that for?’
Chegory began to get worked up. Angry, even.
‘Well, it was rocks, okay, my rocks had got into there, I mean I didn’t put them there, it was probably those kids, you know, that Marthandorthan bunch, they come over the harbour bridge in the evenings, they just run riot. Okay, so it’s all rocks in there and a whole lot of filth and muck and stuff. So what am I supposed to do, make some big thing out of it? I mean, who does it if I don’t?’
‘You still could have-’
‘Oh, leave the boy alone,’ said Pokrov. ‘Let’s eat.’ ‘Before he’s washed his hands?’ said Ingalawa.
‘He’s not going to suck the stuff from under his nails, is he? Sit down the pair of you. Eat, eat!’
With some reluctance Ingalawa abandoned the civilisation of Chegory Guy for the moment and seated herself. Chegory, smarting still from Ingalawa’s reprimand, took his own place. Olivia grinned at him from across the table. She already had a flying fish on her plate and was teasing its wings open and shut with her fingers as if pretending it was still flying. Her grin was inciting Chegory to do the same. He was sorely tempted — but a glance at Ingalawa showed him the scholarly Ashdan female was still dragonising him.
A moment later, she saw what Olivia was doing. ‘Olivia!’
This said to the accompaniment of a hand slammed down on the table.
‘It’s Chegory’s fault,’ said Olivia, dropping the wings of her flying fish. ‘He dared me to.’
Chegory kicked her under the table. Olivia kicked him back, hard. He caught her ankle. Drove his thumb into a pressure point between the heel’s tendon and the associated bone. Olivia wrenched her leg back. Such was the violence of her reaction that her knee slammed into the underside of the table with a resounding thump which upset the curry powder and spilt the flying fish sauce.
‘That’s enough!’ shouted Ingalawa.
Olivia looked at Chegory.
Chegory looked back.
He winked.
Olivia clutched her hands to her face as if vomiting. Actually, she was trying to stifle a fit of giggling. She was not entirely successful.
‘I’m serious,’ said Ingalawa, in her now-you-are-adults-not-children-and-I-expect-you-to-behave-accordingly voice. ‘Any more nonsense out of either of you and you can get down from the table and go and eat in the kitchen.’
‘Oh, can we?’ said Olivia eagerly.
‘No!’ said Ingalawa.
‘Would anyone care for some iced water?’ said Ox No Zan.
He was sorely distressed by the display of bad manners which had disrupted the meal. In his home city of Babrika such conflict would be unthinkable. Any young person rude enough so to misbehave in front of an elder would be… well, skinning alive would be the least of it.
‘Thank you,’ said Ingalawa, seeing No’s discomfort and thus, out of courtesy, allowing his attempted diplomatic intervention to succeed and bring the scene to an end.
Some time later, when the meal was well underway, Artemis Ingalawa broke the news to Ivan Pokrov. He had been invited to dine at the Qasaba household that evening. He said he would think about it.
Why such hesitation?
Because Jon Qasaba was in the habit of probing Pokrov.
Who preferred to conceal his true age, provenance and past. Ivan Pokrov was a some-time citizen of the Golden Gulag, and, even though the Gulag had collapsed in war twenty thousand years ago, old habits die hard.
Pokrov was reticent about his true identity because he was a criminal on the run. He had offended against Injunction AA709/4383200/1408 of version 7c of the Authorised Penal Code of the Golden Gulag. A heinous crime indeed! What’s more, a crime unpunished to date, for so far Ivan Pokrov had escaped the extended algetic tutoring he so richly deserved.
‘You must come,’ insisted Ingalawa. ‘Jon keeps saying we haven’t enjoyed your company for… why, he says it feels like a passage of millennia.’
Ivan Pokrov, who was already sweating because of the heat of the day, began to sweat all the more. Was Ingalawa hinting that all was known already?
Before Pokrov could worry about it further, a servant entered to say that a visitor was demanding an audience with him.
‘We’re in the middle of lunch,’ said Pokrov.
‘The visitor,’ said the servant, ‘is the Master of Law. Aquitaine Varazchavardan.’
‘Oh,’ said Pokrov. ‘That puts a different complexion on things! Show him in immediately.’
Very shortly, Aquitaine Varazchavardan was shown to the dinner table. Chegory Guy was most embarrassed to find himself in the presence of a member of the Imperial Court. In obedience to the dictates of courtesy he rose to his feet and made reverence in the Janjuladoola manner: palms of the hands pressed together, knees bending slightly to lower height as head makes a short bow toward the fingertips. Varazchavardan did not bother to acknowledge this homage. He seemed unaware that Chegory existed as he rounded on Pokrov, saying:
‘Pokrov! Have you anything to say to me?’ Varazchavardan oft used this open-ended question on his victims in an effort to intimidate them and startle them into incontinent confession. But it had no such effect on the master of the Analytical Institute, who said:
‘Why, yes. Welcome, welcome! Won’t you sit down? Please. We’ve sea slugs today. Look. Green, succulent. Did you ever see anything more beautiful?’
Pokrov knew his man. Varazchavardan was not a glutton, nor was he an epicure, but he did have a notorious weakness for sea slugs. He accepted the invitation. Nevertheless, he did not allow himself to feed for long before he got down to business.
‘Pokrov,’ said he, ‘did your Analytical Engine by chance have anything to do with the events of last night?’
‘No,’ said Ivan Pokrov. ‘What happened last night suggests someone was tampering with probability itself. My Engine lacks the power to do such, for it is but pieces of metal in conglomeration.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Varazchavardan, ‘it thinks.’
‘It does not think,’ said Pokrov. ‘It merely manipulates. As the prestidigitation of a conjurer is to the magic of a true sorcerer, so the manipulation in which the Engine indulges at my pleasure is to the freedoms of my thoughts and of yours.’
Despite Pokrov’s denials, Varazchavardan insisted that he would inspect the Analytical Engine after lunch.
By this time Chegory had realised Olivia was casting little avid glances in the direction of the wonderworker. He found himself possessed of a ferocious jealousy. What did old man Varazchavardan have that Chegory Guy didn’t? Answers numerous could be postulated, for, after all, Varazchavardan was a member of the Imperial Court whereas young Chegory was but a dragonless rock gardener. But let the truth be known. The sweet Ashdan lass had not conceived a lust for the wonderworker himself but for his robes, silken ceremonial robes most marvellously embroidered with serpentine dragons ablaze with goldwork and argentry, with emerald and vermilion, with incarnadine and ultramarine.
Chegory, who did not know this, was relieved when lunch drew to a close.
When lunch did end, Ox No Zan absented himself so he could keep his appointment with Doctor Death. Artemis Ingalawa went back to her algorithmic labours. Pokrov told Chegory and Olivia to busy themselves with the mathematical studies which were (as always) to occupy their afternoon, then he led Varazchavardan into the Counting House where the Analytical Engine was at work.
Pokrov gave his standard explanation of the Engine’s function, and concluded by saying:
‘Thus what we see here is no more than the mechanical manipulation of patterns. The person who devises the protocols by which those patterns will be manipulated is exercising intelligence. So too is the person who designs the actual mechanisms which enable data to be processed by such algorithms. There is however no demon in the machine itself. It knows nothing, lacks all sense of self, and is ruled by the same mechanical necessities which rule a stone rolling helplessly downhill. In other words, it cannot think, does not think and never will think.’
But despite Pokrov’s explanation, the Master of Law found the Analytical Engine no more scrutable than before. The collosal construction (otherwise known as the mills of Jod) still defied his understanding. It was still no more than a maze of brass and steel, of intermeshed cogs made of titanium (the sole source of which is fire vanes taken from the corpses of dragons), of levers and wires and ratcheting mechanisms.
‘What is it doing now?’ said the Master of Law.
‘A statistical analysis of the recent census,’ said Ivan Pokrov. ‘The inland revenue wants to know how best they can screw more money out of the populace. We’ll give them the answer. In time! The mills of Jod grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly small.’
The albinotic sorcerer could take a hint. He knew what Pokrov was telling him. That the Analytical Institute had friends in high places. It worked for the inland revenue, no less. Very well then! Even Varazchavardan was reluctant to go up against the inland revenue department, at least for the moment. Nevertheless, when he seized power on Jod he would make a point of smashing the Engine and burning Pokrov alive.
On principle.
What principle?
A very simple principle: namely, that anything occult is dangerous. Varazchavardan’s main objection to the existence of the Analytical Engine was that he could not for the life of him understand it. Oh, he could see the hard-muscled engine operators sweating at the treadmills. He could see how the transmission system worked, feeding the energy of manpowered cylinders to whirling metal.
He saw copper cards with their inscrutable arrays of punched holes. He saw other operators feeding these cards into the interstices of the Engine. He saw needles descend upon the cards — and, in his imagination, he substituted Ivan Pokrov’s flesh for the insensate cards thus tortured.
All this he saw.
But — how did any of this senseless insectile activity allow the Engine to think? And it did think, it did, it must, it had to! Else how could it outperform even the hard-headed analysts of the inland revenue? Pokrov was lying. Had to be lying. This conglomeration of metal was a farcical front. There was true magic hidden here. Somewhere. There was Power. And Varazchavardan vowed to win its secrets from Pokrov’s seared and bleeding corpus before he made that corpus a corpse.
With his inspection completed, Varazchavardan took his leave of Ivan Pokrov at the door of the Analytical Institute and began to walk down to the shore. He had almost got there when fluids began to well up from the wealth fountains which studded the slopes below the Counting House.
‘Oh no!’ said Pokrov.
Oh yes! It was happening! Nothing could stop it!
As Pokrov watched helplessly, familiar pungent odours filled the air as chemicals flooded out of the wealth fountains. The flood swelled around the ankles of Aquitaine Varazchavardan then rose higher yet with prodigious speed. The albinotic sorcerer was suddenly waist-deep in a veritable torrent of bile-green dikle and filthy grey shlug. He lost his footing and was swept away into the sea.
‘I hope he drowns,’ muttered Pokrov.
Don’t get the wrong idea. Pokrov was a very nice man. But he knew the Analytical Institute and everyone associated with it would be ten thousand times safer if Varazchavardan came to a nasty end.
However, Aquitaine Varazchavardan swam with remarkable facility to the harbour bridge and hauled himself aboard. Then he stood up. The Master of Law was not given to histrionics, and therefore did not turn and shake his fist. Nevertheless, as he set off for the shores of Injiltaprajura, something about his purposeful stride made his mood perfectly clear.