Hugh Cook - The Wazir and the Witch

‘I have, I have,’ said Shabble, sounding hurt.

From Shabble’s point of view, a good deal of the last twenty thousand years had been spent doing very little but helping people. Shabble had taught them and counselled them, had played music for them and kept them company in prisons and elsewhere, had designed machines for them, had translated foreign languages for them, had told them stories and had worked out their income tax.

But people seemed to be in as much of a mess as they ever were, and they were still as full of demands as ever.

After twenty thousand years, Shabble had had enough. Shabble was a priest now, the High Priest of the Temple of the Holy Cockroach, with Shabbleselfs own life to lead, so people would just have to get on with the job of helping themselves. And if they didn’t, if they continued to make importunate demands upon poor old overworked Shabble — why, then Shabble would burn some of them up, and Shabbleselfs lawyers would have something to say to any who were left unburnt!

‘You did very, very well,’ said Odolo, laying on the praise for on e last time. ‘And I’m very proud of you.’ ‘And you’re going to kiss me goodnight,’ said Shabble. ‘You promised.’

‘And I’m as good as my word,’ said Odolo.

And the conjuror kissed dear Shabble, who thereafter took Shabbleself off to Xtokobrokotok in Marthandorthan, and spent the rest of the night leading the congregation of the Cult of the Holy Cockroach in rituals of worship and praise.

As the banquet continued, Jean Froissart rapidly got drunk and slid beneath the table. Manthandros Trasilika drank just as much, but had a greater ability to hold his liquor, and managed to stay in his chair. Juliet Idaho, another big drinker, vomited thrice and fell off his chair more times than one could easily account for, but stayed conscious and semi-capable.

Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek drank not at all, but smoked furiously, looking a very dragon in his rage. In due course, Aath Nau Das returned with the iron ball, which he had anatomized into three main fragments and seven smaller ones, plus a great many flakes of rust and a liberal sprinkling of iron dust.

‘There’s no trick here,’ said acolyte Nau Das.

‘But there’s a trick somewhere,’ said Master Ek.

‘You mean — you mean you think we didn’t see a genuine miracle?’

‘Oh, grow up!’said Ek.

‘If not a miracle,’ persisted Nau Das, ‘then what?’

An acolyte does not — should not — blatantly question a High Priest in this manner. But Master Ek kept his temper and gave a reasoned answer:

‘Injiltaprajura has a Cabal House, has it not? And the Cabal House is packed with wonder-workers, is it not? And have not the wonder-workers powers magical? And does it not follow that such a sorcerer could easily have intervened tonight on Froissart’s behalf?’

‘It could be,’ conceded Nau Das. ‘But who?’ ‘Varazchavardan,’ said

Master Ek. ‘To name but one possibility. Dolglin Chin Xter is another. I have long thought him to be in alliance with the Thrug.’

‘Xter?’ said Nau Das. ‘But he’s sick in bed. Sick to the point of death with hepatitis and malaria in combination.’

‘So our spies tell us,’ said Master Ek grimly. ‘But I no longer believe we can trust our spies. They led us to believe a false wazir would be produced tonight.’

‘And there won’t be?’

‘Use your eyes! Look! The Thrug’s as merry as a pickled gherkin. She’s sozzled. Juliet Idaho’s no better. There’s no risk of swords going to war tonight. If the Thrug has a false wazir in hiding, she means to hide the thing still.’

‘But our spies were so confident!’ said Nau Das.

‘So maybe the Thrug is deliberately feeding them false information,’ said Master Ek.

‘So what do we do now?’

‘We grab someone we can trust to have reliable information,’ said Master Ek. ‘Juliet Idaho. The ideal choice.’

‘Why?’ said Nau Das. ‘Why ideal?’

‘For obvious reasons,’ said Ek in irritation. ‘Work it out for yourself.’

Juliet Idaho had the confidence of the Empress and so would know what was going on. He had few administrative responsibilities, so would not be swiftly missed. And, by the end of the night’s celebrations, the much-befuddled Yudonic Knight would be in no state to put up any resistance whatsoever.

As Ek was so thinking, his thoughts were distracted by a pair of spoons which had started drumming their way along the tabletop. They were porcelain spoons brightly painted with green and yellow dragons shown breathing out red flame and purple smoke. Now the spoons were dancing, and drumming as they danced.

The spoons jumped up on to a big platter. It was an elegant piece of pottery in the most dignified Janjuladoola grey, and it held great discards of sucked bones and fish scales, of fruit pips and banana peels, of the flaccid skin of papaya, the flexible armour of pineapple and the obstinate wood of clean-picked coconut.

There danced the spoons.

Click — clack — sklakkety clack!

Clok — clok — cluckety tuckety cluckety skluk!

As the spoons thus amused themselves, tatters of meat and splatters of fruit discarded in all directions. A waiter tried to restrain these irresponsible culinary instruments, but they slipped from his grasp and fled down the table.

Plat — mat — blattatarat!

Sklip — blip — tukatatot!

So rhythmed the spoons as they drummed on the tabletop, chimed against steel and porcelain, upset glasses of sherbet and wine alike, and at last started dancing right in front of Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek himself.

The High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral glared at the spoons in fury, then looked around the table. He saw half a dozen wonder-workers sitting together and laughing uproariously. Master Ek fastened his gaze upon them. As the sorcerers felt the sharp talons of that gaze digging into their flesh, their laughter ceased abruptly, and the spoons fell dead on the table. Shortly thereafter, the miscreants made their excuses and took themselves off to their Cabal House.

Many people were leaving now, for the debauch really had entered its final stages. Fuddled drinkers spilt their brandy, stumbled with their wine and slid beneath the table. In disregarded bowls, intoxicated pyramids of icecream melted to muddled puddles. Candles shickered and swayed in subtle draughts of sweating air. A dizzy mosquito cannoned cockeyed through wreaths of insect-destroying smoke, then, half-seas-over, plunged to its own destruction in a jug of vinegar.

At the head of the table, the Empress Justina turned to Olivia and said:

‘Enough. Our duty tonight is done.’

Justina left the table in company with the Ashdan lass; and shortly both were in bed and asleep.

The departure of the Empress was the signal for everyone else to leave, which they did. Master Ek departed in the company of his acolytes and other companions. Juliet Idaho was not so quick to leave, but at last the Yudonic Knight got to his feet and stumbled down Lak Street towards the grand mansion he shared with his wife Harold.

Idaho never got there.

As he was walking down Lak Street, a group of men surrounded him. He was seized by the strength of six. A hood was dragged down over his head. A gag was stuffed into his mouth. Then he was thrown on to a dung cart and taken to Goldhammer Rise and the Temple of Torture. There he was ungagged and, after a preliminary beating, was brought into the presence of Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek.

‘Good evening,’ said Master Ek.

Juliet Idaho spat out a little blood then said:

‘What do you want from me?’

‘Oh, just a little talk,’ said Ek. ‘Come, I mean you no ill. Here, have a drink.’