Hugh Cook - The Wazir and the Witch

The revenue agents lacked Uckermark’s specialized knowledge of ecclesiastical law, but research soon demonstrated that Uckermark was right. So the revenue agents had recourse to Nadalastabstala Banraithan-chumun Ek. The High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral was far from pleased to see them, and even less pleased once they had explained their mission.

‘You petty money-grubbing omolkiomomooskipis,’ said Master Ek in open contempt. ‘Your grudgery is an open disgrace. It is fitting for worshippers to give freely to their faith.’

‘But,’ said a revenue agent, the same one who had argued valorously with Uckermark, ‘the Cult returns half of all monies to the donors as charity.’

‘That is only reasonable,’ said Master Ek. ‘If the donors have pauperized themselves by their generosity to their church they must surely have need of such charity.’

‘Then let them give less to start with,’ said the revenue agent. ‘For charity doles escape all taxes, You see, most of these people are in the upper income bracket. Their tax rate is set at nine dalmoons in the dragon. But as it is, they pay a dragon to the cult to earn five dalmoons in charity. Every dragon thus paid saves the giver four dalmoons, while the revenue wins not a damn in taxes.’ ‘It’s a laundering operation,’ said another agent. ‘Explain it to me again,’ said Master Ek.

It was a great many years since he had bothered to add or subtract. He had accountants to do that kind of drudgery.

The revenue agents were pleased with Ek’s enthusiasm for enlightenment and gladly assisted with his continuing education. Master Ek proved to be exceptionally interested in the details; indeed, the sharp-eyed priest had smoked his way through three cigarettes before the agents were finished.

‘Now I understand,’ said Ek at last. ‘As a reward for their devotion, the worshippers have their effective tax rate cut from ninety per cent to fifty, thus saving themselves four dalmoons in the dragon.’

‘Precisely,’ said one of the agents.

Ek lit a fourth cigarette, drew deeply on that source of narcotic delight, blew a smoke ring then said:

‘You have my gratitude. You have revealed to me a cure for the growing impiety of Injiltaprajura. What serves for a Protected Religion will serve for the Source.’ One particularly young and impressionable revenue agent, unable to control himself, gave vent to a moan of anguish.

‘You do that well,’ said Master Ek with interest. He was something of a connoisseur of moans, groans and other expressions of anguish; and here, he realized, was a unique talent. ‘Have you ever considered a career as a human sacrifice? If you do, we have an opening available. The Festival of Light is scarcely a month away. Just think! Very shortly you could be kneeling at the feet of Zoz himself. Actually… I have a mind to declare a mass sacrifice. As High Priest upon Untunchilamon I do have that privilege. How many of there are you? Let me see…’

As Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek began counting the assembled revenue agents, they said their adieus and fled.

Their next stop was the pink palace, where they petitioned the Empress Justina for assistance.

‘Oh,’ said she, ‘but there’s nothing I can do. It’s not my island any more. It’s the Crab’s. Why don’t you talk it through with Dui Tin Char? Taxes are his job, not mine.’

‘We would,’ said one of the agents, ‘but he’s on Jod.’ ‘Well!’ said Justina. ‘Then what’s the problem? You’re a healthy young man. And the day’s not that hot. It’s easy enough to find. Down to the end of Lak Street then turn left. First bridge to the right. Can’t miss it. Off you go! Come along now. I’ve got work to do.’

‘What work?’ said one of the agents. ‘We thought you had been replaced by the Crab.’

‘Replaced but not unemployed,’ said Justina. ‘I’ve all manner of commissions to do. Why, only today I got a message from Master Ek. He’s got a festival coming up, the Festival of Light, and there’s an unaccountable shortage of sacrifices. He wants me to help him find some. What are you doing next month?’

The revenue agents did not stay to answer.

They fled.

Once safely distant from Justina, they huddled together in their headquarters and conspired and caballed at length. To no effect whatsoever. For, since Justina and Ek both refused them help, there was nobody they could turn to for assistance. Except the Crab.

And that risk they were most certainly not prepared to run.

None of those cowardly agents was even prepared to dare the dangers of the harbour bridge and venture to the island of Jod for a consultation with Dui Tin Char.

Tin Char, head of Injiltaprajura’s Inland Revenue, was labouring on Jod as a slave. He worked in the kitchen under the vigilant eye of Pelagius Zozimus. And, three times a day, he helped take meals to the Crab.

Chegory Guy and Olivia Qasaba were always in attendance on that dignitary. Indeed, they even shared its meals. They sipped at tiny bowls of centipede soup while the Crab gravely sheared through huge loaves of cassava bread, dipped them in tureens of the same savoury concoction then fed itself with the sodden mass that resulted. They shared the Crab’s grilled flying fish, roast pig and cat-monkey pie.

And, after meals, Chegory and Olivia worked their way through huge heaps of state papers piled upon desks outside the Crab’s cave. Two lanteen sails had been rigged up as awnings to protect this makeshift office from the whims of the weather.

To Tin Char, it looked as if the Crab truly was running Injiltaprajura, with the Ebrell Islander and a young Ashdan lass acting as no more than the Crab’s

secretary-slaves. To reinforce this illusion, Olivia had obtained some white paint, and with it she had written upon the Crab’s carapace (in Janjuladoola): I AM THE LORD EMPEROR OF THE UNIVERSE.

Olivia had also made the Crab an ‘imperial hat’ of the kind affected by those ancient rulers of whom we read in the pages of the famous Hero Sword Sagas. It was a most magnificent hat of purple paper, with seven yellow streamers descending from its peak; and, glued atop the Crab’s carapace, it looked truly imposing.

Had Tin Char dared engage the Crab in conversation he would have learnt that the Crab professed a total lack of interest in the rule of Injiltaprajura; but, with the memory of the dislocation of his arms undimmed by time, Tin Char spent no more time in the Presence than was absolutely necessary.

Then, on the day on which the run on the N’barta began, Chegory Guy casually informed Tin Char that the Crab meant to have the head of the Inland Revenue for dinner the next day.

‘I am honoured,’ said Tin Char, doing his best to conceal his apprehension.

‘It is a great honour,’ agreed Chegory. ‘So please don’t chew any betel nut between now and the granting of that honour. I don’t think it makes any difference, but the Crab swears it spoils the flavour of the flesh.’

‘The flavour?’ said Tin Char, doing his best to delay comprehension.

‘The flavour, yes,’ said Chegory. ‘So no betel nut. But coconuts, that’s OK, oh, and even a little alcohol, I know it’s, um, a drug and all that, but one day’s drinking won’t hurt you any, not that it matters in any case when the end’s so close.’

Tin Char, having by now understood the nature of the Crab’s invitation to dinner, pretended to faint. He was carried to the infirmary attached to the Analytical Institute, and from there he made his escape shortly after midnight.

Zazazolzodanzarzakazolabrik was Tin Char’s destination. He durst not stay in Injiltaprajura, for the Crab or the Crab’s agents would surely haul him back to Jod to be consumed at banquet by that anthropophagous monster.