Hugh Cook - The Wazir and the Witch

Varazchavardan’s reply was similarly embroidered, though it can be translated very simply, thus:

‘Whence comes this knowledge?’

‘Canoes were on the water when the ships arrived,’ said Rat. ‘They asked, they were answered.’

‘And what of the Izdimir Empire?’ said Varazchavardan.

‘Of that they say only that it is as it was,’ said Rat.

The ships had claimed they departed from Yestron shortly before a decisive battle, a battle which must surely have become a part of history by now. Rat had heard this rumouring yet failed to report it to Varazchavardan. No deep plot, conspiracy or manoeuvring was here involved; the Rat had simply forgotten this detail.

‘Is that all?’ said Varazchavardan. ‘Or is there some small yet important detail which you have forgotten?’

Rat thought about it then answered:

‘Oh yes. That’s right. The brothel ship is called the Oktobdoj and there’s a two-dragon fee just to get aboard to inspect.’

‘Then,’ said Varazchavardan, ‘I suggest you exert yourself by turning ice cubes to dragons. Or damns at least.’

‘My master flatters me with his confidence,’ said Rat, entirely missing the ironic force of this invitation.

Rat, intending to attempt the transformation on the spot, focused his attention on the amphora which held Varazchavardan’s ice cubes, extended his hands and said:

‘Bamaka! Ba-’

‘Not here!’ said Varazchavardan in unconcealed alarm.

‘Oh,’ said a somewhat crestfallen Rat. ‘Then where?’

‘I suggest you make the experiment on Island Scimitar,’ said Varazchavardan. ‘That way, if it should succeed, your wealth will be less likely to come to the attention of the Inland Revenue.’

‘Oh,’ said Rat. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Oh, and there’s one more thing. The conjuror Odolo waits without, whatever for I’ve no idea. He craves an audience.’

‘Then show him in,’ said Varazchavardan moodily.

Whereupon Justina’s messenger boy withdrew, returning shortly with the conjuror Odolo, an oliveskinned foreigner of unknown nationality.

‘Your mission?’ said Varazchavardan bluntly.

‘I come from Justina on a mission of some sensitivity,’ said Odolo, glancing at Rat.

‘Nixorjapretzel!’ said Varazchavardan. ‘Vanish!’

‘As you wish,’ said Rat, somewhat offended by this abrupt dismissal.

Then the young sorcerer raised his hands and cried out in his most imposing of voices:

‘Foo! Fa-brok! Fajanthamoglostima! Ka!’

Thunder burped, lightning fizzled through the air with a sound similar to that made by a fire when it is abruptly extinguished by a bucket of water, and Nixorjapretzel Rat vanished. Where he had stood, nothing whatsoever could be seen except a boiling cloud the colour of octopus ink.

‘Oh, get out of here!’ said Varazchavardan in disgust. ‘As you wish,’ said the cloud in a muffled voice.

Then it perambulated away to the stairs and descended. Perhaps it could not see properly, for its departure was followed by the heavy sound of someone falling downstairs and a brief cry of pain (or was it surprise?). Then there was the sound of loud-voiced argument between cloud and house slaves, a hiatus, the sound of a door slamming emphatically, another hiatus, then the confused sounds of combat between a purple cloud and a bewildered but belligerent mange dog.

All that time, Aquitaine Varazchavardan sat chewing ice cubes, endeavouring to intimidate Odolo through application of silence. Odolo displayed no anxiety, but waited patiently until Varazchavardan deigned to speak.

‘Now,’ said the wonder-worker, as the noise of that battle receded into the distance, ‘what was it you wished to talk to me about?’

Odolo then explained about the destruction of the airship.

‘The Empress Justina saw it,’ said Odolo. ‘The thing came apart and was carried into the sky.’

‘It was poorly made, then,’ said Varazchavardan.

‘The wizard who built the thing protests that such spontaneous destruction is impossible,’ said Odolo. ‘He declares it must have been masterminded by the Cabal House.’

‘Very likely,’ said Varazchavardan sourly.

He did not elaborate. He had no need to. Both Odolo and Varazchavardan knew that Injiltaprajura’s wonderworkers were largely loyal to Aldarch Three, the dreaded Mutilator of Yestron. It was an open secret that Varazchavardan would have liked to give his loyalty to the said Mutilator. Unfortunately, the Hermit Crab of the island of Jod had forced Varazchavardan into an alliance with the Empress Justina. And Aldarch Three, a notable exponent of unreason, was most unlikely to forgive that alliance.

Is it tedious to have this twice remarked upon? If so, then spare a thought for poor Varazchavardan, who remarked upon this calamity not twice a day but fifty times at least. As the advent of the Trade Fleet had drawn nearer, his apprehension had steadily increased; hence his nightmares, his angers, and his waking visions of drenching blood.

There was a pause; and this time it was Odolo’s turn to maintain a disconcerting silence.

‘Well,’ said Varazchavardan at length, ‘so the flying thing is dead.’

He said it blandly, as if this were a matter of no importance; whereas in fact he had hoped to escape from Untunchilamon by air, paying for his passage with a small quantity of the considerable treasure he had amassed during his stay on that island. While the blow was a heavy one, Varazchavardan had endured many dreadful blows in his life (the death of his much-beloved friend Wazir Sin, for example) and so had experience in absorbing shocks and sorrows.

‘Yes,’ said Odolo. ‘We have no hope of escape by air. Furthermore, Justina says the destruction of the airship proves that Master Ek is ready to move against us. She declares that we must attack Ek first. Today. Lest we be arrested by Ek. He has the support of the Cabal House.

He could do it. He will do it. Unless we move. First. Attack, you know, is the best means of defence.’

Varazchavardan received this extraordinary declaration in complete silence. Then he thought about it. The scheme was lunacy, of course. Flight was possible. Difficult, dangerous and uncertain. But at least possible. They had possessed a hope of getting away by air. They might yet leave the island by sea. But to dare an armed confrontation with Master Ek? No. That was lunacy.

Ek had no Powers.

Ek was but a priest, albeit the High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral on the island of Untunchilamon.

However, Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek had the support of most of the wonder-workers of Injiltapra-jura’s Cabal House, for most of those worthies were worshippers of Zoz the Ancestral. Justina’s soldiers were largely disloyal and untrustworthy, and far more likely to fight for the Janjuladoola-skinned Ek than for a child of Wen Endex like the female Thrug. As for the populace, at least half would support Ek rather than the empress.

Varazchavardan clawed more ice from his amphora. He rubbed it between his hands. Ice-melt lubricated the palms of his hands. Then, abruptly, Varazchavardan crammed the ice into his mouth and smashed it with his teeth. His jaws bit, savaged, crunched. The ice broke, splintered, shattered. Varazchavardan swallowed convulsively. Then smiled sweetly upon the disconcerted Odolo and said:

‘This is not Justina’s plan. Justina is not a lunatic.’

Odolo said nothing.

So Varazchavardan went on:

‘A plan such as this, a jejune and bloodthirsty plan based on senseless, hopeless violence, could only have been hatched by Juliet Idaho.’

Odolo did not deny it.

‘However,’ said Varazchavardan, ‘even Idaho would never come up with something so witless unless he was truly desperate. Which means things are as I have long feared. The Crab is no longer prepared to support Justina Thrug against her enemies.’