Hugh Cook - The Wazir and the Witch

‘It’s a plot, isn’t it?’ shouted Idaho.

‘Plot?’ said Drumel in bewilderment. ‘Plot, what plot? What are you talking about?’

‘To kill Justina. It must be. That’s what they came for. Too scared to kill me on the spot so they sent me haring off to Moremo. And you’re mixed up in it!’

Bro Drumel protested his innocence, but Idaho was not placated. Drumel had participated in one attempted coup already, so was unlikely to be innocent if a second was in progress.

Shortly, Juliet Idaho was making for the pink palace with a much-sweating Bro Drumel stumbling in front of him. Idaho’s sword was drawn. Bro Drumel’s hands were tied behind his back, and Idaho had already promised the man that he would be killed immediately if any terminal misfortune had befallen Justina Thrug.

On departing from the Dromdanjerie, Pelagius Zozimus and Ivan Pokrov followed Jon Qasaba’s advice and made their way to Marthandorthan, Injiltaprajura’s ill-reputed dockland area, where they hoped to find Shabble. The most direct route would have been via Goldhammer Rise, but they felt it wisest to avoid the vicinity of the Temple of Torture until they had recruited Shabble to their cause; hence they took a back-cut route which avoided possible embarrassments.

Zozimus and Pokrov reached Marthandorthan. As they strode through this quarter of slumland tenements and brooding warehouses, the feverish pulse of the drums of Injiltaprajura assailed them from all sides.

When they located the Xtokobrokotok, the insalubrious warehouse belonging to the drug dealer Firfat Labrat, they found a group of teenage drummers camped in the street outside it, beating repetitively upon their instruments of diabolical intoxication.

Tok-tok-thuk!

Tok-tok-thuk…!

Ignoring the drummers, Zozimus and Pokrov advanced upon the Xtokobrokotok and begged leave to enter. But the doorman who guarded the portal of the place refused to admit them unless they stated their business; and this both wizard and analytical engineer declined to do. Instead, they overpowered the doorman and forced an entrance.

They found themselves in a large, high-gabled hall studded with doors opening into offices and strongrooms. The light of a few feeble oil lanterns was supplemented by some high-placed slit windows which had lately been cut in the far wall of the warehouse. The air was heavy with the scent of joss, incense and burnt rice.

To his surprise, Pokrov saw a gallows had been erected in the centre of the warehouse. From it there hung a cage. A birdcage? He could not tell, for the cage was distant and the gloom murky. Round the gallows there sat some four or five dozen people of various ages, sexes and classes. They sat cross-legged, and from them there arose a monotonous chanting. What were they saying? If Pokrov heard aright, the chant went thus:

‘Holy holy holy. Holy is thy presence. Holy is the day which thou dost grace. We will worship thee now, and tomorrow, and on tomorrow’s morrow, and on into eternity. Holy holy holy. Holy is thy presence.. ’

Floating above the gallows was a bright-shining bubble about the size of a clenched fist. Or, to be slightly more specific, about the size of the Standard Fist affixed to the end of those lethal clubs wielded by the rubble boxers of the city of Obooloo.

‘They’re worshippng Shabble!’ said Pokrov in tones of mingled astonishment and outrage.

‘That will never do,’ said Zozimus. Then raised his voice to a shout: ‘Shabble! Come here!’

‘At once,’ said Pokrov. ‘Or I will send you to a therapist!’

The chanting ended abruptly. The worshippers around the gallows turned in startlement to see who had intruded upon their sacred ceremony. And Shabble, with a wail of terror-stricken panic, bobbled through the air toward Pokrov and Zozimus.

As Shabble approached, a side door was flung open, and forth from that side door there came Firfat Labrat himself and a much-scarred and much-tattooed man whom Pokrov recognized as the corpse-master Uckermark. Behind them were half a dozen men with crossbows.

Shabble came to a halt just above their collective heads and brightened marginally, throwing all into sharp focus.

‘Hello,’ said Shabble, brightly.

Shabble’s momentary fear and panic were over, and Shabble’s customary high spirits had once again regained the ascendancy.

‘Shabble!’ said Pokrov. ‘I’ve got a job for you. You must-’

‘Silence!’ said Firfat Labrat. ‘One more word and you’re dead.’

Half a dozen cocked and loaded crossbows were immediately levelled at Ivan Pokrov and Pelagius Zozimus. If this, confrontation disintegrated into violence, then Pokrov and Zozimus would surely be killed. Pokrov had no combat skills. Zozimus, on the other hand, was an accomplished warrior, and a wizard to boot. But Zozimus could scarcely hope to dodge half a dozen crossbow bolts fired at point blank range. And as for his wizardry, that was unfortunately somewhat specialized; Zozimus was a wizard of the order of Xluzu, and hence dealt largely with the animation of corpses, an ability scarcely apposite at the moment.

As Zozimus and Pokrov maintained a studied silence, the corpse-master Uckermark cleared his throat.

Then said:

‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Shabble’s lawyer.’

This was news to Ivan Pokrov. Uckermark was certainly no stranger to the law, for his work with human flesh had brought many charges of blasphemy upon his head; however, while Uckermark had always defended himself in court with panache and success, he had never before laid claim to any legal qualifications.

Despite the threat of the crossbows, Pokrov could not help but expostulate:

‘You are no lawyer!’

‘Ah, but I am,’ said Uckermark, with a grin of great cunning. ‘I have a degree from Injiltaprajura’s leading university.’

‘Your fraudulent farce does not amuse us,’ said Pelagius Zozimus coldly. ‘Injiltaprajura has no university.’

‘You stand in error,’ said Uckermark. ‘In point of fact, it has three. The Temple of Torture was formally constituted as a university in the time of the late Wazir Sin. Furthermore, standing beside you is the head of a second university, our dearly beloved Ivan Pokrov. Under interrogation, I’m sure he would admit that his Analytical Institute had a similar legal status. The Cabal House of the wonder-workers is another such seat of learning, and it is from there that my degree derives.’ ‘You have not the look of a scholar,’ said Zozimus. ‘So, as for this degree, I suppose you bought it.’

‘I did,’ said Uckermark, unabashed by this accusation. ‘But my knowledge of the law is firm regardless. This restraint order is valid.’

So saying, Uckermark produced an ornate parchment with a flourish, and presented it to Ivan Pokrov.

‘We knew you’d show up sooner or later,’ said Uckermark, ‘so we went to the trouble of getting this court order. It restrains you from interfering in any way whatsoever with the Cult of the Holy Cockroach, or with the High Priest of that Cult.’

‘The holy what?’ said Pokrov in amazement. ‘Cockroach,’ said Firfa t Labrat.

‘You know,’ said Uckermark. ‘The shabiti. The veko-veko. The loqualadibimosqantarka.’

‘Yes,’ said Shabble in great excitement. ‘He’s holy, that’s what he is, holy as ever was. And I’m His Priest, His High Priest, that’s what, so no more accounting, not ever, no more algorithms, no nothing. Just playing with cats and chasing seagulls, that’s all, for ever and ever. Lawyers, that’s what I’ve got, lawyers, court orders, freedom of religon, isn’t it exciting?’

‘Shabble!’ said Pokrov sharply. ‘This has gone quite far enough. I f you don’t come to order promptly, I’ll-’ ‘Die,’ said Uckermark.