Hugh Cook - The Wazir and the Witch

Pokrov shut his mouth abruptly. He could be killed before he could command Shabble to kill the potential Pokrov-killers.

‘Yes,’ said Uckermark. ‘That’s more sensible. Silence is a much more sensible course of action under the circumstances. Now why don’t you leave?’

‘We cannot leave,’ said Pelagius Zozimus, ‘because Injiltaprajura stands in grave danger.’

Then Zozimus quickly explained that Aldarch Three had triumphed in Talonsklavara; that a new wazir had come to Untunchilamon; that Justina Thrug had been arrested and was believed to be imprisoned in the Temple of Torture, and, in all probability, to be in immediate danger of losing her life; and that the new wazir would probably shortly kill a great many other people unless he was overthrown immediately.

‘You mean to bring civil war to the streets of Injiltaprajura,’ said Uckermark.

‘With Shabble’s help we can win such a war,’ said Pokrov.

‘Maybe,’ said Uckermark.

And maybe not. For, as Uckermark knew well from long acquaintance with Shabble, the shining one was prone to musical fits in which Injiltaprajura’s bright spark was totally deaf to all pleas and orders, however couched. Anyone who had Shabble as an ally could prosecute a war with fearful effect; but might lose regardless if an untimely fit befell poor Shabble.

‘We have no option,’ said Zozimus, ‘for if we go not to war then we will likely die.’

‘Then die in your own time,’ said Uckermark.

‘You will die with us,’ said Zozimus.

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said the much-scarred corpse-master. ‘We belong, you see, to a Protected Religion. The Cult of the Holy Cockroach and all its adherents are under the protection of the High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral.’

‘But,’ said Pokrov in amazement, ‘that’s impossible!

That’s an honour almost unheard of. Master Ek would never give his protection to a — cockroach, of all things!’

‘Master Ek!’ said Uckermark smoothly, ‘is not unaware of Shabble’s desire for independence. Nor is Master Ek unsympathetic to that desire. In long discussions with Master Ek, I myself made the advantages of the afore-mentioned Protected Religion perfectly clear.’

Zozimus and Pokrov looked at each other.

Obviously, they had been out-manoeuvred.

Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek, a long-time resident upon Untunchilamon, was fully aware of Shabble’s potential for mayhem; moreover, Ek may well have heard rumours to the effect that some people were able to command Shabble for their own purposes. So Ek had neutralized Shabble by, in effect, allowing Shabble to raise a private army to protect Shabble’s desire for independence.

‘This… this Cult of the Cockroach,’ said Pokrov.

‘The Holy Cockroach,’ said Firfat Labrat by way of correction.

‘Holy Cockroach, then,’ said Pokrov. ‘You say its adherents are under Master Ek’s protection. How… how precisely does one join this religion?’

Pokrov was already thinking, and thinking fast. Since Ek had neutralized Shabble, there was no way that enemies of Aldarch Three could triumph in civil war in Injiltaprajura. So Pokrov might well be advised to join this new Protected Religion to secure his own safety. After all, if it admitted villainous drug dealers like Firfat Labrat, why should it refuse entry to a reputable Analytical Engineer?

‘I regret to say,’ said Uckermark, with remarkably little regret in his voice, ‘that the entrance rolls are closed. This is a Closed Congregation. That was part of our agreement with Master Ek. The High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral is scarcely a fool, is he?’

‘No,’ said Pokrov bleakly.

‘And neither are we,’ said Zozimus brusquely, ‘so we’ll waste no more time here trifling with cockroaches holy or otherwise. Come! Let’s be going.’

And the wizard hustled the Analytical Engineer out into the street, where they faced each other in the hot and sweating sunlight.

‘Where will we run to?’ said Ivan Pokrov, in something like despair.

‘Run?’ said Pelagius Zozimus. ‘We’re running nowhere. We’re going to the Temple of Torture. To attack!’

As the Empress Justina was hustled towards the Temple of Torture she collapsed, she went down, and the boots went in. Then Dardanalti was shouting, his lawyerly threats restoring order. Justina was hauled to her feet and marched into the Temple, into a blood-cooking heat where the air stank of curry-flavoured diarrhoea, where screams of agony bucked and contorted, where writhing smoke singed nostrils and rasped within throats.

Then the Empress was hauled into the naos of the Temple, and there was Dui Tin Char, and there were two children of Wen Endex — but both men were strangers, and their faces denied her all hope of help. An executioner bulked forward and wrenched back her head.

‘Stop!’ said Dardanalti. ‘I demand-’

Someone hit him, and he demanded no more.

Justina tried to plead, to protest. But vomited instead.

The executioner raised his blade.

Justina fainted.

‘Hold!’ cried Dui Tin Char.

Obediently the executioner stayed his hand.

‘Come on, man,’ said Manthandros Trasilika testily. ‘Get on with it.’

Dardanalti picked himself up from the ground, wiped a thread of blood from his mouth, and decided that for the moment his client would best be served by his silence.

‘The Thrug has fainted,’ said Tin Char.

‘What of it?’ said Trasilika, he of the heavyweight build and the cauliflower ear.

‘Your colleague will explain,’ said Tin Char, glancing at Jean Froissart.

The priest of Zoz the Ancestral stammered, looked around as if seeking an escape hatch, saw there was no getting out of the place, then said defiantly:

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘It is Written,’ said Tin Char, ‘that Delight depends on Desire, and the heights of Desire upon a studied Postponement. Is that not so?’

‘Verily,’ said Froissart weakly.

The sweat was bulging from his forehead and furrowing down his face. His eyes blinked furiously.

‘Are you ill?’ said Tin Char.

‘It’s the heat,’ said Froissart.

‘He’s had malaria,’ added Trasilika.

Whether heat or malaria was to blame, the great and ever-increasing distress of Jean Froissart was a sight to see. Tin Char found it a most delicious sight. Tin Char was a Janjuladoola racist who hated the children of Wen Endex; therefore he found Froissart’s suffering worth savouring. How could that suffering be prolonged?

The answer came to Tin Char almost immediately. ‘Friend Froissart, ’ said Tin Char, ‘I’m most concerned to see you suffering so badly. We will therefore dedicate this sacrifice to the cause of your improved health. You are conscious of the honour, I hope?’

‘Yes,’ said Froissart weakly.

‘Then,’ said Tin Char, ‘we will proceed, but in the leisurely way that this most honourable ceremony demands. We will start with the Torture of the Thousand Scorpions. Ah, Justina! Are you awakening? You are? Good. You will be happy to hear that your execution has been postponed. Instead, we are going to commence with some preliminary delights.’

Tin Char explained, and his explanation left Justina Thrug so sick with fear and horror that her vocal chords were temporarily paralysed. As she was strapped down in a torture chamber, Dardanalti intervened on her behalf, saying:

‘By what authority do you bring Justina here?’

‘By the authority of this warrant,’ said Tin Char, flourishing Jus tina’s death warrant before her lawyer. Dardanalti snatched it, read i t, then said:

‘This warrant is good, valid and legal. On behalf of my client, I demand that this warrant be executed immediately. I demand that my client be killed on the spot.’