Hugh Cook - The Wazir and the Witch

But of these we can say nothing further, for fooskin is expensive, life is short and the reader’s patience limited; all of which conspires against history. Their existence is noted merely to point out that Jon Qasaba’s suffering was by no means unique.

Certainly Jon Qasaba’s life was a bath of rosewater compared to the terrors being endured by Chegory Guy and Ivan Pokrov, hapless prisoners of the therapist.

As yet, not a hair of their heads had been touched. But the therapist (which had a very fertile imagination) had indulged in all manner of threats. And it was getting restless. Chegory and Pokrov saw its restlessness and rightly feared that the therapist might well do something unfortunate unless it was swiftly granted satisfaction.

The morning after the banquet, a great inertia hung over Untunchilamon. Grey clouds had spread across the constellations by night, but the sunless day was nevertheless as hot as ever. In the smothering heat of morning, it was hard for hangover heads to compel fatigued bones and bleary eyes to get about their business.

It had rained in the night, and the humidity was nothing short of oppressive. Even in the Long Dry, the heat and humidity of Injiltaprajura are hard to take; but when the rains come, and the air is damp, and it is impossible to get anything dry, and rot and fungus flourish everywhere, then one strenuously wishes oneself elsewhere. The weather worsened the temper of the citizenry, which temper was made no better by the unceasing activities of the drummers, whose percussion power ruled the streets from Lubos to Marthandorthan.

Manthandros Trasilika woke feeling dreadful. He felt (not to put too strong a point upon it) as if he had been suspercollated from a gibbet ever since sunset. The cause of his physical unease was a headache. Yes, Manthandros Trasilika had a headache, as an ogre has bad breath or a vampire a taste for blood. It was no ordinary headache, this; rather, it was an all-enveloping disaster, a world-obliterating agony. It felt as if, surely, a master smith was forging a sledgehammer with Trasilika’s scalp as his anvil.

And the cause of the headache? One suspects it to be a side-effect of the prescription medicine in which Trasilika had so vigorously indulged himself while at banquet; that medicine consisting of some extremely expensive imported cherry brandy, a potent toddy derived from a part of the coconut palm which shall remain nameless, some vodka, and a quantity of jellyfish wine (which is to ordinary wine as a spear is to a nail, a lion to a cat, a land dragon to a dragon imperial, or a mountain to an anthill).

Let it be noted that Manthandros Trasilika did not wake voluntarily, and was extremely displeased at having been woken at all. He was wazir of Untunchilamon. Surely nobody would dispute that now that the priest of Zoz the Ancestral who supported his claims to the wazirate had proved himself true in trial by ordeal. Yes, Trasilika was the rightful wazir, one of the lords of the Izdimir Empire — and, at the very least, he expected to be able to sleep in on the morning after a banquet. ‘Why have I been woken?’ said Trasilika.

‘Because,’ said the manservant who had roused him, ‘Justina Thrug demands that you wake. She has things to discuss with you.’

Trasilika groaned.

How much longer would he have to put up with this woman?

Why — no time at all.

She had served her purpose, and it was time for her head to be chopped off.

‘Call my guards,’ said Trasilika to his manservant. ‘Tell them to seize the Thrug and cut off her head. ’ ‘Master,’ said the servant dif ferently, ‘I’m afraid you have no guards.’

‘Nonsense!’ said Trasilika. ‘I had plenty of guards last night.’

‘I’m afraid, master, that they’ve deserted in the night.’ ‘But that’s absurd! Why should they desert now?’

‘I believe, master, that agents acting on behalf of Master Ek have lured them away with promises of higher pay elsewhere.’

‘Are you trying to tell me,’ said Trasilika furiously, ‘that the High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral has bought the loyalty of my guards?’

The manservant quailed, but did not seek to alter the truth. Instead, he said:

‘My lord, that would appear to be the case.’

‘Then — then send to my ship,’ said Trasilika. ‘A dozen men, that’s all I need. A dozen men with swords and hatchets. We’ll hack up this Thrug then see what we can do about N’stala Ek.’

‘Master,’ said the manservant nervously, ‘you… you…’

‘I suppose,’ said Trasilika sarcastically, ‘that next you’re going to tell me I don’t have a ship any more.’ ‘Well…’

‘Are you seriously…?’

‘Master, I–I-’

‘Has my ship been burnt? Or pirated? Or what? Has my scurvy crew deserted to Ek as well?’

‘Master, the ship sailed before dawn. I know not why, or not for certain — but rumour has it that the High Priest of Zoz ordered the bark to depart.’

Manthandros Trasilika, looking for all the world like the famous stunned mullet of the Fables of Skod, gaped at his manservant.

This was serious!

His guards bribed away by Master Ek, his ship sent away by night..

What was going on?

It took Manthandros Trasilika less than half a dozen heartbeats to work out the obvious. For some reason, Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek, High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral for the island of Untunchilamon, had turned against him. Unless he did something, and quickly, he would go the same way as the first Manthandros Trasilika. His head would be chopped off. And the fact that he did indeed have the favour of Aldarch the Third would be quite beside the point…

Yes, Trasilika would have to do something.

But what?

Run?

There was nowhere to run to.

‘My lord,’ said the manservant, ‘do you want me to send the Thrug away?’

‘No,’ said Trasilika, who was quite unable to think of any sensible course of action which might extricate himself from his present difficulties. ‘I will see her.’

On this day of disaster, Justina Thrug might be a potential ally. Maybe.

Shortly, Manthandros Trasilika joined Justina Thrug for a working breakfast. With Justina was the bullman Log Jaris. Both appeared to be unaware that anything was wrong; so, rather than admit his peril, Trasilika concealed his discomfort and attended to business.

‘The facts,’ said Justina, as she chewed her way through two pineapples, three flying fish and a chunk of cold cassava, ‘are very simple. The administration is technically bankrupt. We need money and we need it fast.’

‘We?’ said Trasilika.

‘You,’ said Justina. ‘If you are to rule effectively, you must have money, and soon. That’s why Log Jaris is here. Will you tell him — or will I?’

‘You tell him,’ said the bullman.

‘Very well,’ said Justina. ‘Our plan is very simple. You will sell prescriptions to all those who want them. Each prescription will be valid for ten days. These prescriptions can be filled at certain outlets of our choosing, the prices being those which we set. All you have to do is organize the prescriptions. Log Jaris will take care of the rest.’

At first, Trasilika did not understand. Then he said: ‘Prescriptio ns? Are you talking about prescriptions for alcohol?’

‘What else?’ said Justina.

‘But it’s illegal!’ protested Trasilika. ‘It’s — it’s-’

‘We know what the Izdimir Empire thinks of alcohol,’ said Justina soothingly. ‘But we are both children of Wen Endex, are we not? We were both of us weaned on beer, were we not? And if this were Galsh Ebrek, we could get a mug of beer or better at any tavern of our choosing, without any nonsense about prescriptions whatsoever.’