Hugh Cook - The Wazir and the Witch

As Zozimus was the master chef who served the Crab, that dignitary was equally determined that there would be no repetition of this incident, and so had supported moves to build a defensive wall to guard the approaches of the Analytical Institute.

Ever since, slaves and servants had been labouring to construct that wall, working under the supervision of Chegory Guy. Young Chegory was an Ebrell Islander possessed of a formidable musculature. Until recently, he had been officially employed as a rock gardener — even though ever-increasing amounts of his time had been spent in direct association with the Crab. Now, Chegory still served the Crab its meals and, with help from the delectable Olivia Qasaba, did his best to stop the poor thing from getting lonely in the evenings. However, he was discharging his new wall-supervising responsibilities admirably.

Chegory himself had also suffered in the previous year. After Zozimus had been kidnapped, Chegory had been ordered to the pink palace and there detained by the Empress Justina for a matter of days. What unspeakable things had happened to him? And why? Chegory ever after refused to say. In particular, he refused to discuss the matter with his beloved Olivia, the love of his heart; but his refusal had been couched in terms which had made it abundantly clear to that Ashdan lass that her sledgehammer swain had endured near-unendurable tortures in that palace.

When Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin arrived on Jod, he was soon admitted to the kitchen. The Crab’s breakfast had already been cooked and served, and Zozimus was organizing its lunch. The Crab was going to dine upon centipede soup, shark steaks marinated in a mixture of red wine and dog’s blood, fried octopus wrapped in tendrils of fresh seaweed, the meat of twenty coconuts and thrice thirty mangos, riceballs piqued with cayenne pepper, baked yams and a pie incorporating the eyeballs of five hundred fish.

Sken-Pitilkin told his cousin of the destruction of the flying ship, and thereafter the two wizards sat long together in earnest conference. Both were gravely worried, for the airship’s destruction was the first sign that Injiltaprajura’s sorcerers might be ready to actively move against them. If that happened, the wizards would have two chances: slim and none. For they could not hope to withstand an onslaught by the combined powers of the wonder-workers of Injiltaprajura’s Cabal House.

The two were still dialoguing in helpless circles when a servant ventured to interrupt their conference. Someone was coming across the harbour bridge which linked Jod to the mainland. Someone in a great big hurry.

Now, nobody runs on Untunchilamon. Not unless they absolutely have to. Climate and custom both oppose the practice. Hence a runner stands in danger of collapsing from the heat and humidity; or alternatively, being mistaken for a lunatic and hustled into the Dromdanjerie. So, while there were no psychics on Jod, those on the island were sure the hastening messenger must be bearing tidings of the utmost urgency.

Zozimus and Sken-Pitilkin thanked the servant for the interruption and made sure they were on hand to intercept the messenger and hear the burden of his panic.

The messenger — a her, as it happened — was none other than Olivia Qasaba. She came hammering across the harbour bridge, raced to the wall so slowly rising in front of the white marble magnificence of the Analytical Institute, and promptly collapsed at the feet of her true love, young Chegory Guy.

The Ashdan lass was in a sorry state after her flight from the Cabal House to Jod. Her face was shining with sweat, her bosoms heaving as she gasped for air. She tried to get up. She managed to get up. Then promptly bent double and was sick, for the force of her flight had overstressed her. Chegory, the very incarnation of concern, yelled for someone to bring water, then knelt beside the distressed young woman.

Water was brought; Olivia’s breathing eased; and, to Chegory’s relief, the Ashdan lass found herself capable of speech.

‘Justina,’ said Olivia.

‘She — she’s dead?’ said Chegory.

Olivia shook her head wordlessly. Chegory wiped a little vomit from her lower lip and served her some water in a clean-scraped coconut shell.

‘Don’t drink,’ he said. ‘Just swill and spit.’

Olivia obeyed. Then began to explain. She had been on her way to a jeweller’s shop on Lak Street to get a broken locket fixed. But she had got no further than the Cabal House when soldiers had gone past, dragging Justina with them.

‘Where were they taking her?’ said Chegory.

‘I–I don’t know,’ said Olivia. ‘But they went down Goldhammer Rise.’

Everyone knew what lay on Goldhammer Rise. Memories of the history of the Temple of Torture had been stirred to full and vigorous life by the recent renovations. Immediately a babble of blabbermouthed speculation broke out among the bystanders.

Even as they were speculating, another messenger came across the harbour bridge. This one was not running; instead, he was stumping along stolidly in the mounting heat of the day. He was a mechanic who worked on the Analytical Engine, and he brought grim tidings.

This was the first pronouncement which the mechanic made once he had the attention of the denizens of Jod:

‘Aldarch the Third has won the war.’

Did Chegory feel the day grow cold despite the heat of the sun? He did. Did his vision darken though the sky’s major luminary yet shone bright? It is a pity to answer in the affirmative, for such a response verges on cliche. However, his vision did thus darken. On reflection, we must acknowledge that humans demonstrate a strictly limited repertoire in the face of disaster. Upon deprivation of food, they hunger; when starved of water, they thirst; and when, after months of dread, a long-awaited disaster befalls them, they do for the most part greet such disaster with a stoic’s ataraxia, a drunkard’s braggadocio, a warrior’s defiance, a child’s hysterical panic or with a sudden descent into invalidism.

In the face of disaster, Chegory on this occasion tended to the invalidism school of reaction. But his constitution was sound and solid; and, besides, his concern for Olivia prevented him from indulging in a faintingfit.

So he pulled himself together and listened as the mechanic made all plain.

The mechanic (Joy Wax by name) had been finishing off a late breakfast in his favourite speakeasy when sailors had entered. These matalots had proved to be from the good ship Oktobdoj, and soon they had been drinking up large, earning free drinks with the remarkable tale they had to tell.

When Joy Wax had retailed that tale in turn, there was consternation all round. A new wazir on Untunchilamon! Justina arrested! Aldarch III victorious! Where would it all end?

‘I think, um, I think we’d better do something,’ said Chegory. ‘It’s like, Justina, she, they, they’ll chop her, that’s what I think. Unless we do something.’

‘Yes,’ said a much-recovered Olivia Qasaba. ‘We must rescue her.’

While Olivia had been given to understand that Chegory had been arrested, imprisoned and tortured at Justina’s behest, Chegory was nevertheless wont to opine that the Empress was essentially good. His loyalty was understandable. For it was the Family Thrug which had halted the pogrom against Chegory’s Ebrell Island breed; and an isolated aberrant incident was pardonable when set against the racial debt. Hence Olivia’s expressed loyalty to the Empress; this loyalty being no less than an aspect of Olivia’s love for Chegory himself.

While Olivia spoke with confidence, she failed to bend her audience to her point of view.

‘Rescue her?’ said Joy Wax in open derision. ‘Thrug is finished. That’s all there is to it. Al’three has won. We’ve a new wazir, the Empress already in his grip. Chegory’s right. It’s head-chopping time. Doubtless the Empress has greeted the widest grin already.’