Hugh Cook - The Wazir and the Witch

The harbour master was thrown into confusion. Not because he had any difficulty understanding Ek’s idiom (he understood it perfectly) but because he realized he had made a social gaffe. He had assumed Ek knew all about the recently arrived ships, but obviously he had assumed in error. Now the harbour master would have to instruct Ek. And, in the Janjuladoola culture, a social inferior does not lightly undertake to instruct a superior in the presence of strangers.

At this point one of those strangers, the heavyweight with the cauliflower ear, broke into grammatically imperfect and badly-accented Janjuladoola.

‘We be the ship Oktobdoj. I be Trasilika. Fresh arrived we be and are from Yestron.’

‘Yestron, yes,’ said Master Ek acidly, switching from Janjuladoola to Toxteth as he did so. ‘Yestron, in whose northern reaches they speak an argot different from that of Ang, do they not?’

‘Indeed, Master Ek,’ said the heavyweight gratefully, pleased to be able to converse in his native Toxteth.

‘So you come from Yestron,’ said Ek. ‘What news?’ ‘Talonsklavara i s at an end. Aldarch the Third has triumphed. I am Manthandros Trasili ka, one whom Aldarch Three has sent to Injiltaprajura to do his biddin g. I am-’

Ek gestured for silence then pointed at the heavyweight’s slender companion.

‘You?’said Ek.

‘Jean Froissart, that’s who I am, Froissart,’ said the quick-blinking man, who was so nervous one might believe him to be on the edge of a nervous breakdown, or a heart attack, or both.

Ek hawked, then spat.

‘So,’ said Ek. ‘Talonsklavara is at an end. Aldarch Three has won. Excellent. Excellent.’

Yet, even as he said it, Master Ek found himself curiously unelated, strangely unexcited. Depressed, almost. True, he was a loyal servant of Aldarch Three. He longed to see the family Thrug overthrown and the rule of the True Law restored to Untunchilamon. But…

‘One presumes,’ ventured Dui Tin Char, ‘that Aldarch the Third will shortly appoint a new wazir to rule on Untunchilamon.’

‘He has already,’ said the heavyweight blandly. ‘For I am that wazir.’

‘And I,’ said his nervous companion, ‘am the priest of Zoz sent to accompany him.’

Master Ek and Tin Char positively goggled. Two children of Wen Endex, yet they claimed to be wazir and priest? This was unheard of! It was almost — not quite, but almost — impossible.

‘Trasilika,’ said Ek, ‘I understand you to declare yourself to be the new wazir of Untunchilamon.’

‘Yes. It was Aldarch the Third who appointed me. And, as I am sure you will be glad to hear, he gave me a death warrant for Justina Thrug. And this is that death warrant.’

Ek opened the warrant with difficulty, inwardly cursing the pains that shot through his fingers as he grappled with the parchment. Strange. His hands had been free of pain all morning till now. He studied the death warrant. Genuine? Probably. He passed it to Tin Char, then, to conceal his inward turmoil, took out his black tobacco pouch and began rolling a cigarette.

A long and most embarrassing silence then began, for Ek said nothing as he smoked his way through a cigarette then rolled himself another. That was his privilege. In the Janjuladoola system, the High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral was superior to everyone else on Untunchilamon except the wazir.

And, as yet, Untunchilamon did not have a wazir.

For, though Manthandros Trasilika claimed to have been appointed to that position, he needed to be ceremoniously installed by Master Ek himself. Until then, Trasilika’s appointment had no legal force. Until then, he was wazir in name only, and not in fact.

As Ek sat smoking, he looked for all the world like a smoke-shriveiled corpse. Only his eyes betrayed the bright life of his intellect. But even the eyes failed to hint at the confusion which currently reigned in that intellect.

The source of Ek’s confusion was the scrap of ricepaper hidden in his tobacco pouch, the tantalizing fragment of purple-scripted manuscript which said just this:

‘… to become immortal. Immortality is easily achieved if one has possession of an organic rectifier. On Untunchilamon…’

On Untunchilamon?

Maybe there was such an ‘organic rectifier’ on Untunchilamon. Maybe Ek had a chance of immortality.

So thinking, Master Ek had sent Nixorjapretzel Rat in search of the rest of this purple passage. But Ek had yet to profit from the Rat’s pursuit of this Secret History. And, now, it was too late. For, if one of these ‘organic rectifiers’ was to be somehow uncovered, the new wazir would doubtless claim it on behalf of Aldarch Three.

Was that a problem? An outsider would probably have answered ‘no’. For Aldarch the Third was a worshipper of Zoz the Ancestral. Why then should the Mutilator deny immortality to the priesthood of Zoz? Ek, who was an insider’s insider, knew the answer to that all too well. An immortal Mutilator would doubtless prefer a mortal priesthood, fearing political threats from priests who had all of eternity in which to indulge in political manoeuvring.

‘Is there a problem?’ said the heavyweight at last, intruding on Ek’s silence.

‘Yes,’ said Ek.

‘May we… may we know the nature of this problem?’ said the slender man in his thirties who had identified himself as Jean Froissart.

Ek coughed, hawked, spat, ground out his cigarette then said:

‘I am old. I am seventy years old and I will never again set eyes on Obooloo. My bones bite, my spine twists, my bowels cramp, and my flesh lacks the appetite for the fourth major pleasure.’

The High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral indulged yet again in the first minor pleasure, then continued:

‘So there is a problem. There are several problems. But they are mine, not thine. Let us proceed with the consecration. I will install you as wazir here and now.’

‘What?’ said Tin Char, startled.

This was unheard of. The consecration of a new wazir was a very formal ceremony rightly carried out in public after the appropriate sacrificies and preliminaries.

‘You heard me,’ said Master Ek.

He knew he was offending against protocol and tradition; he knew Obooloo would take umbrage at his actions; ultimately, he might be reprimanded, or chastised, or recalled to Ang to be removed from the priesthood and executed. But he no longer cared. He was sick at heart and a great bitterness was upon him. His recent days had been brightened by the chance of life eternal; but now that chance had been taken from him, and all was blighted.

Therefore the ceremony of consecration was carried out in the Temple of Torture. It was a rushed, squalid affair which offended all those who participated in it. But, for legal purposes, it sufficed. By the end of the ceremony, the heavyweight had been installed as the new wazir of Untunchilamon, and his lightweight companion had been confirmed as the wazir’s personal priest.

‘Just one last thing remains,’ said Master Ek. ‘By what means do you choose to be called?’

‘Why, Manthandros Trasilika, of course,’ said the heavyweight promptly. ‘So I was born, so I will live, so I will die.’

This was an offence against custom, for a new wazir usually takes a new name when assuming his post. But Ek was too far gone to be troubled by such trifles.

‘So be it,’ said Ek. ‘As Manthandros Trasilika you will be known. And you? Do you claim the name Jean Froissart?’

‘It is my own,’ said Trasilika’s companion, ‘so what other should I claim?’

This question was both ignorant and rude, but Ek let it pass without comment, and said:

‘Then go forth into the world as wazir and priest, Trasilika and Froissart your names.’

‘Go forth we will,’ said Mathandros Trasilika. ‘First to secure the execution of Justina Thrug. Are there loyal troops we can call upon?’