Hugh Cook - The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers

Once installed, the imperial favourite regarded Chegory quizzically, then extended its paw.

‘Well, Chegory,’ said the Empress. ‘Where are your manners?’

Chegory sought for words but found none, therefore did but stare at Empress and ape, acting for all the world as if his tongue had been tied after the manner of the torturers of Lower Sladvonia. Given his lack of social sophistication, his attack of verbal constipation is understandable. After all, the hero-prince legends which had supplied his dialogue till then make no mention of the niceties of protocol which arise when a common rock gardener has social intercourse with an ape imperial.

‘Go on!’ said Justina. ‘Give him your hand.’

Chegory was to — to what? Cut off his hand and present it to the ape as a token of fealty? He looked around wildly. Guards in their frowning menace stood but a footfall away from him, their scimitars at the ready. Vazzy rescued Chegory from his indecision. The pink-eyed ape lunged, grabbed Chegory’s hand and hauled on it. Chegory hauled back. Sweating. Panting. Biting his lip. His thick Ebrell Island fingers were now directly above Justina’s lap. They were but a finger length from — from Gods!

‘You silly boy!’ said Justina, with a windchime laugh. ‘Shake his hand and he’ll let yours go!’

Shake his hand? Why? Chegory had no idea, but nevertheless jerked the ape’s paw several times. To his relief, Vazzy then released him. Chegory snatched his hand away as if it had been scalded. He slumped back in his seat. A solicitous attendant mopped away the sweat now streaming from his brow. Chegory endured these ministrations without protest, then realised a waiter was questioning him.

‘What?’ he said.

Chegory was startled by his own over-loud voice, by the note of shark-flavoured brutality in the single vocable. A moment later he realised (to his horror!) that he had asked his question in his native Dub, instead of phrasing his query in fragrant Janjuladoola or (second-best, surely — but the Empress used it) good honest Toxteth.

The waiter repeated his question using the politest forms of Janjuladoola imaginable, yet still managing to convey a weary sense of infinite superiority:

‘Mead, sir? Or wine?’

‘A — a physician has prescribed mead for my anaemia,’ said Chegory, stumbling slightly as he rendered this simplicity in Janjuladoola. He had conceived an immediate fear of the waiter, which was quite natural given the waiter’s massive sense of superiority and Chegory’s increasing nervousness.

‘Those doctors will over-prescribe!’ said Justina. ‘Give him the wine, it’s much safer.’

‘My lady has a degree from the College of Medicine,’ murmured the wine waiter, ‘therefore one trusts her judgement implicitly.’

The qualification in question was an honorary degree, but the waiter made no mention of this as he poured wine for Chegory (the guest of honour), then for the Empress, and then (since the ape was in possession of a medical certificate signed by the Veterinarian Imperial) for Vazzy.

‘Thank you,’ said Chegory, truly grateful that the Empress had descended (as it were) from her seat amidst the stars to deal so expediently with the waiter.

He congratulated himself for saying his thanks in Janjuladoola. Then was horrorstruck. He had used the familiar form! He had said efkarindorenskomiti, the word by which a friend thanks a friend, or (for this is a very familiar form indeed!) which a lover uses to supplement a kiss just a few moments after orgasm. The word he should have used to express his thanks was (of course) dundaynarbardina-dorsklo, for thus and only thus should a slave or similar address a power imperial.

Such lapses of etiquette are not to be taken lightly. In the court of Aldarch the Third (who, for all that can be said against him, is ever at pains to improve the manners of his people) many have been instantly executed for lapses in protocol far less extreme. But the Empress Justina merely laughed. She was delighted!

‘I’m so glad we’re getting to know each other better,’ she said.

Though she spoke in Toxteth, her words implied that she had caught every nuance of Chegory’s Janjuladoola. So what could he say? That he didn’t mean it like that at all? ‘Thank you,’ he said, helplessly.

Only this time he said it in Toxteth, a language which offered him far fewer opportunities to make those social gaffes which are almost inevitable when an inept linguist endeavours to grapple with the delicious intricacies of Janjuladoola.

Before Chegory had a chance to embarrass himself further, Justina’s white ape hooted in pleasurable anticipation. A white-faced figure gorgeously adorned in robes embroidered with moray eels and scorpion fish was approaching the Empress. However, the ape was to be disappointed, for Aquitaine Varazchavardan remembered what had happened at the last banquet, and halted well out of ape-grabbing distance.

‘Hello there,’ cooed the Empress Justina, with a sly smile upon her lips. ‘What can we do for you today, young man?’ Varazchavardan was not young, otherwise he might have lost control of his temper there and then. Instead, the albino tic sorcerer cleared his throat and said, as banquet protocol compelled him to:

‘My most honoured lady, as Master of Law I ask on behalf of myself and of your assembled guests that we be excused the ritual of confession.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Justina. ‘What do you think, Chegory'? Should we spare the man confession?’

This comment most naturally brought the attention of the Master of Law to bear on young Chegory Guy, who could but stare helplessly at Varazchavardan. The terrified Ebrell Islander looked for all the world like a dormouse surprised by a cobra.

All Chegory could think of was the scene Downstairs where the sorcerer had fought his way free from the Malud marauders who had taken him prisoner. Varazchavardan had sent fire shooting outwards from his body, with dual consequences. First, the elderly pirate holding a knife to Varazchavardan’s throat had let him go. Second, the liquor with which the floor was awash had ignited, causing the sorcerer to be almost instantly engulfed in flames. Obviously, he had survived.

Equally obviously, to judge from the look he gave young Chegory, he remembered.

‘Well, Chegory?’ said Justina gently. ‘Do we spare him confessions or not?’

‘Sp- spare me,’ said the terrified Chegory. ‘Please!’

‘He spares you,’ said Justina to Varazchavardan. ‘Isn’t that nice of him? One day, we must spare you not. I’d be most interested in hearing your confessions, Vazzy darling. Most interested.’

Aquitaine Varazchavardan concealed his intense dislike of the insulting diminutive with which the Empress Justina had addressed him. Instead, he bowed very low, then said: ‘My lady’s wisdom is exceeded only by her personal grace and beauty.’

Then Varazchavardan bowed lower yet, then turned about-face. As the Master of Law began to walk away, Justina offered her ape a bit of coconut.

‘Vazzy,’ she said, pitching her voice to carry. Varazchavardan turned, only to see Justina’s ape accepting the proffered delicacy from the fingers imperial. Justina smiled sweetly at Varazchavardan. He stared back. If looks could kill, the Empress Justina would have been crisped to the bone then and there. If looks could kill, there would have been instant genocide on Untunchilamon. Sailors would have screamed aloud as they met a mortal end on ships far out upon the striding seas. A swathe of devastation would have cut its way across entire continents. Princes in cities far distant would have fallen from thrones of glory with blood by the bucketful vomiting from their throats. In caves far deep within the mountains huge dragons would have roared in strenuous agony, then kicked in pain and rage, and then expired. Such was the look which Varazchavardan bestowed upon Justina.