Hugh Cook - The Wazir and the Witch

However, the wizards Pelagius Zozimus and Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin were not so swift to write off Justina.

‘We must at least try to preserve the Empress,’ said Zozimus.

‘Indeed we must,’ agreed his cousin.

Their attitude owned nothing to altruism. The two wizards were sorely isolated on an island dominated by sorcerers, and hence hostile to wizards. Their allies were few. Few? Two! Keeping them company on Untunchilamon was a cut-throat by name of Thayer Levant and a barbarian called Guest Gulkan.

This little band of foreigners had come to Untunchilamon to seize a bauble known as the wishstone, a triakisoctahedron of obscure origin which was one of the minor ornaments of Justina’s treasury. They had failed. They now wished to leave Untunchilamon with at least their lives: something far easier to arrange if Justina remained on the throne.

‘Yet,’ said Sken-Pitilkin, ‘we lack the strength to win in war against the wonder-workers.’

‘Then,’ said Zozimus, ‘Shabble must help us.’

‘Shabble?’

‘Shabble! Send for Ivan Pokrov!’

Joy Wax was sent to fetch Pokrov, while other mechanics, servants and slaves were dispersed in other directions with different messages. Some were sent to warn selected Ebrell Islanders that a victorious Aldarch Three had sent a new wazir to Untunchilamon, and that a fresh pogrom might shortly begin. One was sent to summon a lawyer to the Temple of Torture to act for Justina (for they were ignorant of the fact that the redoubtable Dardanalti was already with the Empress). Others were sent to warn Theodora Thrug (Justina’s twin sister) and Troldot Turbothot (Theodora’s latest boyfriend) that it would be best if they went into hiding. ‘You must also go into hiding,’ said Olivia to Chegory. Reasonable advice, for Chegory was an Ebrell Islander, and hence a potential victim of pogrom. But Chegory demurred, saying he must first consult with the Crab. Hand in hand, Chegory and Olivia made their way to the cave where the eremitic dignitary dwelt that Chegory might receive orders from Jod’s true ruler.

Meanwhile Ivan Pokrov came hastening out of the Analytical Institute, and was soon deep in urgent discussion with Zozimus and Sken-Pitilkin.

‘Shabble would at this stage appear to be our only hope of rescuing Justina,’ said Zozimus.

‘What exactly do you know of the Shabble breed?’ said Pokrov.

‘I know,’ said Zozimus, ‘that Shabble can throw flame sufficient to disgrace a dragon. With that power on our side, all Untunchilamon will necessarily yield to us. Furthermore, I have heard it said that you have the power to command Shabble.’

‘Me?’ said the olive-skinned analytical engineer, doing his best to appear innocent.

But Zozimus was right.

Ivan Pokrov knew the secret of commanding Shabble.

There is no great mystery about Shabble or Shabble’s past. The free-floating ball which had made Injiltaprajura its playground was no more than an analytical engine left over from the days of the Golden Gulag. It drew its energies directly from a sun located in a different cosmos entirely, hence would have no trouble burning Injiltaprajura to the ground if the necessity arose. Against such a weapon, no wazir would be able to survive: not even if he had an army at his back.

Furthermore, Ivan Pokrov was an immortal survivor of the Golden Gulag, and knew the secret of commanding Shabble. Which, again, was very simple. Shabble lived in dread of being sent to a therapist. And Shabble could always be commanded against Shabble’s will by a threat of impending therapy. All Pokrov needed to say was this:

‘Do what I tell you or I’ll send you to the therapist!’

By such commands, Ivan Pokrov had long bent Shabble to his will. Thus Shabble worked in the Analytical Institute when Pokrov commanded it, designing complex machinery capable of processing algorithms. Better still, Shabble even worked out Pokrov’s income tax. Pokrov had never tried to command Shabble to kill someone. But surely Shabble would obey if commanded.

‘Very well,’ said Pokrov, coming to a decision. ‘I admit it. I can and will command Shabble. But first we have to find our floating bubble. Shabble has not been seen on Jod these many days. I propose that we begin by looking in the Dromdanjerie. Well, shall we be going?’

‘Pelagius will go with you,’ said Sken-Pitilkin. ‘Not me.’

A wise decision, for, though the two cousins were of equal age, Pelagius Zozimus looked at least a thousand years younger and was far more athletic. Sken-Pitilkin’s wizardry could not protect him from the crushing heat and humidity of the day, and there was a danger that if he hastened up and down the steep-rising streets of Injiltaprajura he would shortly fall victim to heat-stroke.

So Pelagius Zozimus and Ivan Pokrov set forth to seek out Shabble, first making their way to the Dromdanjerie, the lunatic asylum where the globular master of mischief so often went for interesting conversation with a wide range of people who had plenty of time on their hands.

Pelagius Zozimus and Ivan Pokrov did not run. Nevertheless, their pace evidenced a certain haste as they went across the harbour bridge, through the slumlands of Lubos, then up steep-rising Skindik Way. Past the slaughterhouse they went, a trickle of monkey blood running into the street as they stalked past. Next came the huge rotting doss-house known as Ganth-orgruk, and then the Dromdanjerie.

Into that bedlam they went. It was cool within, and quiet, but for the ominous beating of a drum.

Tok-tok-tuk!

Tok-tok-tuk…!

The pulse of a remorseless madness!

Zozimus and Pokrov paid no heed to the drumming, but enquired after the master of the place (the eminent Ashdan known as Jon Qasaba). At their request, a servant sought him out. They then interrogated him as to Shabble’s whereabouts.

‘You’ll find friend Shabble in Marthandorthan,’ said Jon Qasaba.

Pelagius Zozimus raised one eyebrow. This raising of one eyebrow was a speciality of his. Though Zozimus was an uitlander who had spent very little of his life on Untunchilamon, he nevertheless knew Marthandorthan to be a singularly insalubrious area, a slumland of warehouses, speakeasies, gangster lairs and over-populated tenement blocks notorious for the delinquency of the children spawned with them.

Pokrov knew this also.

‘Marthandorthan?’ said the analytical engineer, frowning. ‘What would Shabble be doing there?’

‘Do you by chance know of a drug dealer by name of Firfat Labrat?’ said Qasaba.

‘Well… yes,’ conceded Pokrov with some reluctance. ‘Labrat is a cousin of an employee of mine.’

‘So he is,’ said Qasaba. ‘So he is. And unless I am misinformed, you once had occasion to shelter in the Xtokobrokotok.’

‘The Xtokobrokotok?’ said Pokrov.

‘That,’ said Jon Qasaba, ‘is the name of Firtat Labrat’s warehouse in Marthandorthan.’

‘Oh,’ said Pokrov. ‘So. What are you trying to tell me? That I’ll find Shabble there?’

‘Shabble, yes,’ said Qasaba. ‘And Labrat. Did you by chance introduce the pair?’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Pokrov. ‘When I was in this — what is the name of the place?’

‘Xtokobrokotok.’

‘Yes, well, when I was there, Forfat Labrat asked for some help with his income tax. As a matter of courtesy I was compelled to oblige, and naturally I asked Shabble to give me some help. It’s an excellent accountant, this Shabble, whatever its other failings may be.’

‘Then you must bear some of the responsibility for what has happened,’ said Qasaba ominously.

‘Responsibility?’ said Pokrov in bewilderment. ‘What are you talking about? What’s Shabble done now?’

‘If I was to tell you,’ said Qasaba, ‘you’d be most unlikely to believe me. It’s best that you go and see for yourself.’