Hugh Cook - The Wazir and the Witch

‘Once Master Ek has disembowelled a couple, the rest may begin to sing a different story,’ said Dardanalti. ‘Your claims are ridiculous. Aldarch Three would never make a wazir of a child of Wen Endex. He hates all but those of the Skin.’

‘You don’t understand,’ said Froissart.

‘What did you say?’ said Dardanalti.

There was death in his voice. He was of Janjuladoola race: and no child of Wen Endex may safely insult one of such genesis.

‘My lord,’ said Froissart, realizing his error. ‘The ancestors of my ancestors were slaves of your forebears, and I, a slave, grovel at your feet in suppliant apology.’ ‘Truly your tongue is as honey,’ said Dardanalti. ‘But, were I Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek, you would no longer have a tongue at all.’

‘I spoke in haste,’ said Froissart.

‘But,’ said Dardanalti, ‘perhaps in truth. It would seem you claim for me a lack of comprehension. What, pray tell, is the aspect of reality which escapes my grasp?’

‘My lord of lords,’ said Froissart, ‘I meant merely-’

‘Explain,’ said Dardanalti, chopping abruptly from Janjuladoola to Toxteth.

Froissart followed the implications of the language shift. Dardanalti was done with playing at being a Janjuladoola aristocrat in the presence of his racial inferiors. Now he wanted to get down to business.

‘Manpower,’ said Froissart, speaking with greater confidence as the empowering simplicities of Toxteth came to his assistance. ‘Al’three has lately been seeking outside the ranks of the Janjuladoola for officers of all descriptions. Talonsklavara has seen such a great slaughter among those of the Skin that other breeds must be employed.’

‘As slaves,’ said Dardanalti.

‘Talent has no immunity to a scimitar’s blade,’ said Froissart. ‘Those of the Skin can no longer supply an entire empire’s need for talent. Hence Al’three has turned elsewhere. Not for help with the governance of Ang, of course; but for the rule of cities such as Bolfrigalaskaptiko, and the rule of outlands such as Untunchilamon.’

Dardanalti considered this.

‘You sound as if you expect me to be convinced,’ said the Janjuladoola lawyer. ‘But I am not. You suggest major changes in the practices to which Al’three has been devoted. Whatever the truth, Untunchilamon knows nothing of such changes. Friend Uckermark! I wish to speak to you privily. Come, let us withdraw.’

Then Dardanalti and Uckermark left the newcomers alone.

Once the Janjuladoola lawyer and the fire-scarred corpse-master had secured their privacy, Dardanalti said:

‘We’ll let them sweat for a while.’

‘Do you believe them?’ said Uckermark.

‘No,’ said Dardanalti, speaking frankly. ‘But, even so, they may have potential. If we can make the world believe them to be genuine.’

‘Difficult, difficult,’ said Uckermark. ‘Particularly when they’re such patent frauds. However…’

The corpse-master had an idea.

Back in Bro Drumel’s quarters, Manthandros Trasilika said to Jean Froissart:

‘Well. What do you think our interrogators are talking about?’

‘Nothing,’ said Froissart. ‘I think they’ve left us here to have discourse with our fear and panic.’

‘Then their ends are being fulfilled,’ said Trasilika. ‘I don’t like this at all. I don’t think they believe us.’

‘I’m sure they don’t,’ said Froissart.

‘But it’s true!’ said Trasilika.

It was, too.

Manthandros Trasilika and Jean Froissart had been associated with Aldarch the Third, the dreaded Mutilator of Yestron, thoughout the seven years of Talonsklavara. First they had supplied the Aldarch armies with weaponry, mostly cheap-shatter swords from the Collosnon Empire. Later, after proving themselves as spies, they had helped organize an intelligence service to supply the Mutilator with hard data on his enemies.

At last, Aldarch III had shown his gratitude by making Manthandros Trasilika the wazir of Bolfrigalaskaptiko (albeit briefly) and by then dispatching him to Untunchilamon with Jean Froissart as his priest.

‘What now, then?’ said Trasilika.

‘Sleep,’ answered Froissart simply.

‘Most excellent of counsels!’ said Trasilika.

And the two men laid themselves down on Bro Drumel’s couches to rest, conserving their energies for whatever challenges their captors might next confront them with.

Both children of Wen Endex were sound asleep when Dardanalti and Uckermark returned in the company of a figure both cowled and masked.

‘May we know your name?’ said Froissart to the personage thus so s trangely garbed.

‘This man is for the moment but an observer,’ said Dardanalti. ‘He comes from Justina’s household. Apart from that, his name and genesis do not concern you.’ ‘Then why is he here?’ said Froissart.

‘Because he has a certain expertise in the conduct of trials by or deal,’ said Dardanalti.

‘What?!’ said Froissart. ‘You don’t mean-’

‘You heard me,’ said Dardanalti remorselessly. ‘You know yourself thought a fraud. There is only this single way for you to prove yourself.’

‘What way?’ said Manthandros Trasilika in some bewilderment.

‘He knows,’ said Dardanalti, nodding at Froissart. ‘Tell,’ said Tr asilika curtly.

‘There is one way for you to prove yourself,’ said Dardanalti, add ressing himself to Froissart.

Who did not answer.

‘How?’ said Manthandros Trasilika.

‘If your priest will undergo trial by ordeal to prove himself true,’ said Dardanalti, ‘then his survival of such trial must necessarily prove the truth of his words.’

‘I have documents to prove my case,’ said Froissart desperately. ‘I’m a priest of Zoz. Five years ago I converted.’

‘We’ve been through all that,’ said Dardanalti, with a trace of weariness. ‘The last wazir and priest also had documents. Perfect documents. They died.’

‘We can prove who they were,’ said Froissart. ‘Associates of ours, that’s who they were. I can guess their, their names. They must’ve been-’

‘Names from your past mean nothing to our future,’ said Dardanalti. ‘What matters is that you are outwardly no different to those we executed.’

‘No different,’ said Froissart.

‘Those we slaughtered were children of Wen Endex unknown to any in

Untunchilamon,’ said Dardanalti.

‘You are the same. They had documents, and you-’’

‘All right,’ said Trasilika. ‘If a trial by ordeal-’

‘No!’ said Froissart. ‘No ordeal!’

‘But you are a priest,’ said Dardanalti. ‘Is not the ordeal the classic way for a priest of Zoz to prove himself true?’

‘Yes,’ said Froissart. ‘But, but-’

Uckermark laughed.

‘Come,’ said the corpse-master. ‘We’ve played with our guest for long enough. Let’s settle to business.’

Then Uckermark took it upon himself to explain what was truly proposed. The Empress Justina would make available resources (and Uckermark elaborated the nature of those resources) which would make it possible for Jean Froissart to come through a trial by ordeal unscathed. By surviving such a trial, Froissart would prove himself a true priest of Zoz, thus escaping the execution which would befall him were he to be thought false.

‘All we ask in return,’ said Uckermark, ’is that you pardon the Empress Justina and those arraigned alongside her.’

Then he explained the imperial predicament.

At last, Froissart said:

‘We would like to agree with this proposal, but Aldarch the Third gave us explicit orders. The witch must die.’

‘Then,’ said Dardanalti, ‘you will most certainly die with her.’