Hugh Cook - The Wazir and the Witch

‘Stroth!’ said Justina, swearing softly to herself.

What would she find when she got up above? What was Trasilika doing right now? Had he killed Ek? Or did Ek still live? And Varazchavardan? And Jan Rat?

Justina was more than a little humiliated to realize that the rule of Injiltaprajura was of so little concern to the humanized Crab that it preferred to gossip away the centuries in the company of a monstrous therapist. Furthermore, such was Justina’s shock at her unexpected betrayal by the Crab that she found herself quite unable to formulate any coherent plan of action. No help in this respect came from her companions.

Chegory Guy seemed none the worse for wear after his ordeal — he was, after all, an Ebrell Islander, and such creatures are far less sensitive to rough handling than the ordinary run of humanity — but both Chegory and Olivia were going to be of very little use as far as any sensible planning went. They were too busy canoodling, something they managed even while on the move. As for Juliet Idaho, he just wanted to kill something; and Justina did not believe that any plan involving murder was likely to secure as much as their bare survival, far less their health and happiness.

The journey which had seemed so short when Justina had been leading her forces to certain victory now seemed long, tedious and wearisome as she led the march toward the uncertain future. Through dark and light they went, sometimes pursued by the squillering of vampire rats — and at last emerged into the light of day.

For safety’s sake, Justina chose to exit from the mazeways by means of the tomb-door on the desert side of Pokra Ridge. Here observing eyes were fewest. Once out in the saunabath heat of Injiltaprajura, she hesitated, unsure whether to retreat to Moremo Maximum Security Prison — the sole stronghold which any people loyal to her might have managed to seize and fortify against her enemies — or whether to proceed to the palace.

‘Where are we going?’ said Olivia.

Thus forcing Justina to decide.

‘We will go to the palace,’ she said firmly.

By fleeing to Moremo, she would only concede Injiltaprajura to any thug with the will to take it. By going to the palace, by occupying the traditional seat of power, she might yet secure the rule of the city. If her enemies were in disarray. If Manthandros Trasilika had not already set himself up once more as wazir. If Master Ek was dead, or at least too sick to speak a word against her. Given a little time — a few days, that was all she asked for — she could try other strategies. Such as producing her own false wazir.

A new scheme occurred to her: a variation on those of the past. She could produce a man, any man, any stranger to the city — one of Jal Japone’s men would do — and claim that man to be the Crab incarnated in human form.

‘I can do it,’ muttered Justina, as she strode toward the palace.

‘Do what?’ said Juliet Idaho.

‘Regain my throne,’ said Justina. ‘And my power.’

Yes.

If the events of the past few days had proved anything, they had proved that her enemies were incapable of coordinated, coherent action. They had hesitated and prevaricated when they should have struck ruthlessly and decisively. They had given themselves to doubt when they should have given themselves to action. They had been deceived repeatedly by lies, bluffs, carefully planned leaks of false information, and deceits of all kinds. They had proved themselves a pack of second-rate fools, cowards and weaklings.

Justina Thrug threw open the unguarded sally port which gave access to the pink palace from the north. She stepped inside, into the dusty silence of her palace.

‘Anyone home?’ she bellowed.

Then listened for a challenge, for clattering feet.

Nobody answered.

Nobody came.

Chegory Guy and Olivia Qasaba ventured within. Juliet Idaho peered suspiciously at the landscape without — then joined them.

‘We have the palace,’ said Justina. ‘That’s the first thing. Come. My quarters first.’

She went to her quarters, hoping to find a servant or messenger, or at least a message. But there was nothing and nobody, but for the dragon Injiltaprajura, first (and perhaps only) child of the brave-hearted dragon Untunchilamon. Justina peered closely at Injiltaprajura’s saucer.

‘At least my dragon has been fed,’ said Justina.

Indeed it had, for there was fresh milk-soaked c amp;ssava bread and a quarter of a corpse worm on the dragon’s saucer. Injiltaprajura yawned, and stretched baby dragon wings. She looked closer still. Unless she was mistaken, the dragon was ever so slightly jaundiced. That was no good! What should she do?

‘Where now?’ said Chegory.

A good question!

Justina was momentarily at a loss for an answer, and so pretended she had not heard. Chegory spoke again. Louder, this time. And by then Justina had an answer.

‘Where?’ she said. ‘To the roof, of course! Seize the high ground!’

‘Whatever for?’ said Olivia.

‘So we can see what’s going on,’ said Justina. ‘Olivia, you can carry my dragon.’

So saying, Justina took the saucer upon which the dragon rode in state, and handed it to the Ashdan lass.

‘Take this?’ said Olivia. ‘Whatever for?’

‘I think it needs some sun,’ said Justina. ‘It’s getting jaundiced. Don’t drop it!’

And with that, Justina set out for the roof forthwith, thinking furiously as she did so. What should she do next?

Justina’s main problem was that the fundamental political dynamic of Untunchilamon remained unchanged, and that dynamic was hostile to her. The greatest force for evil on the island was the favoured religion of Aldarch the Third, that is to say the worship of Zoz the Ancestral. Ultimately, when it came to the crunch, a substantial part of the populace would side with Aldarch the Third or his minions. And now that the Multilator of Yestron was known to have triumphed in Talonsklavara, now that Al’three was revealed as the victor, the populace had little excuse for enduring the rule of the Family Thrug any longer.

So whatever Justina tried — be it a bluff with a false wazir or an imitation Crab — it would have to be very very good.

Otherwise she would shortly lose her head.

Justina was still thinking through her problems when she came out on to the roof. And the first thing she saw was Pelagius Zozimus, the wizard of the order of Xluzu who had lately served the Crab so well as a master chef. Zozimus was stark naked, a condition which lacked erotic appeal; for, while Zozimus was still hale in limb and shapely enough, the Empress was not in the mood. Besides being naked, the wizard was also dripping wet. ‘What have you been doing to yourself?’ said Justina. ‘That,’ said Zozimus, ‘is a long story.’

Since Nixorjapretzel Rat had hexed Pelagius Zozimus, the unfortunate wizard of Xluzu had been incarnated variously (this list, please note, is not exhaustive) as a grampus, a sun scorpion, a beady-eyed puttock, an eyeless whore’s egg, an ostrich, a snow dragon, a puma and a penguin. In the last-named incarnation, Zozimus had recently been swimming in Justina’s rooftop swimming pool, which he had found uncomfortably warm for his blubber-clad penguin body. But for the moment his original flesh had reclaimed him, though he had no certainty that such reclamation would be permanent.

‘Well,’ said Justina, ‘tell us your long story. Then we’ve one of our own to tell.’

Already Justina was figuring Pelagius Zozimus into her political calculations. Was he her ally? Not exactly. But he was not her enemy, either. He was a wizard, and so naturally at odds with Untunchilamon’s wonder workers, and so ‘You may think you have time for long stories,’ said Zozimus, ‘but in fact you do not.’