Hugh Cook - The Wishstone and the Wonderworkers

‘Then say it!’ said Chegory Guy desperately, seizing his chance. ‘Say it about Varazchavardan! He’s a drug pusher! Xter’s right! I’ve proof! Varazchavardan’s evil! Drugs, drugs, that’s what he’s into! I saw him, he had liquor, barrel upon barrel of it. I saw it Downstairs! He had rum!’

He had rum! In Injiltaprajura, that was about the worst accusation one could make about someone.

‘That is a baseless accusation,’ said Varazchavardan roundly. ‘A vile slander. This Chegory is in league with Xter! He’s part of a criminal conspiracy to undermine the administration of law. Treason, in a word!’

Chegory could hear pounding footsteps fast-approaching. Whose footsteps? Who was coming?

‘We’ll see,’ said the Empress Justina grimly. ‘For the moment, Vazzy, you’re out of a job. I’m removing you from your position. You’ll-’ She broke off as armed guards came pounding into the Star Chamber. At their head was the captain of her palace guard, the elegant Bro Drumel. ‘Brody!’ said Justina. ‘Just the man I wanted to see! I want you to-’

‘Seize the bitch!’ shouted Varazchavardan. ‘It’s now or never, man!’

To Chegory’s bewilderment, Bro Drumel and his men laid rough hands upon the Empress Justina without so much as a moment’s hesitation. Comprehension came to him a trifle belatedly: Bro Drumel and his men must long have been leaguing with Varazchavardan. Here was conspiracy true and proven!

‘What are your orders?’ said Bro Drumel to Varazchavardan.

‘Secure the palace,’ said the sorcerer. ‘Let none enter or leave. Guard the treasury. Summon up the troops. Declare a State of Emergency. I am taking control of Untunchilamon in the name of Aldarch the Third, Mutilator of Yestron.’

‘You cannot do this!’ cried Justina, in high dudgeon truly. ‘Such base ingratitude! Such vile turpitude!’

‘Silence, bitch!’

That was Bro Drumel speaking. Then he said no more, for the Empress thumped him with her handbag, and he fell as if poleaxed. Roaring like a buffalo in heat, Justina laid about her, laying out guardsmen right and left.

‘Cut her down!’ screamed Varazchavardan, quite losing his cool. ‘Kill her where she stands!’

But none of the guardsmen was quite prepared to hack into the imperial flesh. Instead, they abandoned their scimitars and endeavoured to subdue the Empress by brute force alone. As batde imperial progressed, Chegory Guy edged toward the door.

‘The Ebby!’ said Varazchavardan. ‘Don’t let him get away! Seize him! And those Ashdan bitches! The corpse master, get the corpse master!’

This was done. Thus Chegory Guy, Olivia Qasaba, Artemis Ingalawa and the corpse master Uckermark were swept into Varazchavardan’s net together with the Inquisitor Xter and the Empress Justina. Yes, Justina was captured. Panting, sweating, speechless with rage and exhaustion. She spat at her treacherous guard captain as he picked himself up off the floor.

‘Search them,’ said Bro Drumel.

Obedient to his orders, the guards began to search the captives. Starting with Justina.

‘Take your filthy hands off me!’ said the Empress Justina, rapidly recovering her voice. ‘How dare you maul the royal person with your vulgar paws?’

Her wrath made very little impression on the guards. Unfortunately most of Untunchilamon’s soldiers were from Ang, and hence had scant natural regard for the daughter of a Yudonic Knight from Wen Endex. While they had served her faithfully during the years of civil war, none fancied the idea of dying in a futile attempt to shield her from the wrath of Aldarch the Third, who now seemed certain to obtain victory in Yestron.

To the guards, throwing in their lot with Varazchavardan made a lot of sense. As they were eager to prove their loyalty to that eminent sorcerer, they made a thorough job of their search. Since the Empress was wearing virtually next to nothing they found scarcely anything about her person.

But a search of her handbag uncovered:

A bodkin, a poison ring, a pet asp in an enamelled box, a confectionery case holding half a dozen condoms and a piece of zurkish delight, a soljamimpambagoya rock, two pages of a treatise on sodomy, a miniature prayer scroll, a twist of hashish, a snuff bottle, a clean sweat-pad, two pearls, a tiny spoon designed for cleaning the nostrils, a fragment of pumice, a silken pomander, a likoraskifdadona, assorted coinage, some items related to intimate feminine hygiene, the tooth of a basilisk strung on a silver chain, a dragon’s tooth, a piece of raw ambergris, a scorpion embalmed in amber, an embroidered snot-rag, an ivory chin-scratcher and a dead mosquito.

Now that Varazchavardan was sure Justina was not in possession of any concealed weapons, he approached.

‘Faugh!’ she said. ‘So this is the thing which means to kill me!’

There was a low grumble from the audience. To his discomfort, Varazchavardan realised that a great number of spectators had entered the Star Chamber, attracted by the drama there taking place. He had not noticed them till then, for none had dared venture on to the ground-floor battleground. Instead, they were crowding the mezzanine floor. If he tried to have Justina killed out of hand, he might precipitate a sudden outbreak of suicidal patriotism amongst the spectators.

Varazchavardan counted his guards, rough-counted the spectators, then substituted ‘murderous’ for ‘suicidal’. If things got out of hand, he might die. Here and now!

‘Nobody means to kill you,’ said Varazchavardan, in his most sincere and soothing voice. ‘My dear Justina, you’ve been ill. My old friend Aldarch Three will understand that, particularly when he finds you in the Dromdanjerie with your father.’

The Empress hissed with rage.

Spat.

Missed.

Varazchavardan addressed the mezzanine audience directly, saying:

‘The Empress is suffering a mental disturbance. Thus will be held in protective custody lest she come to harm. Aldarch Three will understand. No harm will come to her. Or… or to us, to all of us, we who have stood by her for so long. We were right to do so while rule in Yestron was in dispute, but now rule is disputed no longer we must

… we must take care of everyone in danger here. Including Justina. To rule any longer would prove her death. And… and ours, my friends.’

This may seem a simple speech. It was. It was no great exercise in eloquence, to be sure. But it brought the audience to order, for it contained some very potent truths. Aldarch the Third was almost certain to triumph in Yestron, and would doubtless be most unhappy with anyone who opposed his claims to absolute power.

Then a strident voice cried from the mezzanine:

‘Who says she’s mad?’

‘What else could she be?’ said Varazchavardan. ‘Unless mad, why would she consort with this Ebby?’ He laid his hand on Chegory’s shoulder. He dug his talons into Chegory’s flesh.

‘Ebbies are okay,’ said the same strident voice.

Varazchavardan wished he could see who the voice belonged to. Its owner would then be in line for a bath in boiling oil. From the mezzanine there came an ugly muttering. Others took up the cry in favour of Ebbies. But Varazchavardan was equal to the situation. He plunged a hand up one of the sleeves of Chegory’s silken canary' robes and withdrew it, holding something bright and glittering.

‘What’s this?’ said Varazchavardan, holding aloft the trophy he appeared to have snatched from Chegory’s possession.

‘Something you put there!’ said Chegory.

‘Thus says a thief!’ said Varazchavardan, upholding the glittering bauble for all to see. ‘This is the wishstone, isn’t it?’

‘It’s not, it’s not!’ said Chegory. ‘It’s glass, that’s all. A triakisoctahedron in glass!’