would wear trousers and shirt exclusively, regardless of the time of day. People of a higher station, such as Ivan Pokrov or Artemis Ingalawa, would tend to wear ankle-length robes at all times, while sorcerers would never be seen dead or alive in anything other than long, flowing silken robes most richly embroidered.
Thus clothing.
When Chegory had washed his hands and had dressed for lunch he entered the white marble building which housed the Analytical Institute. There the windchimes sang:
Tangle tongle schtingle schtong…
It was the season of Fistavlir, the Long Dry. Yet even so, there was just enough wind to idle the chimes into music.
Meanwhile, back on the mainland — but you have guessed already. Of course. The conjurer Odolo, Official Keeper of the Imperial Sceptre, was in the treasury. And had found the imperial sceptre lying on the floor where the hand of a thief had discarded it. And Odolo’s heart was hammering, for the wishstone, priceless ornament of that sceptre, was gone!
By the time Chegory Guy was ready to sit down to his own lunch on the island of Jod, Odolo had already raised the alarm, and troops were already beginning the search for the guilty — or for scapegoats. But Chegory knew nothing of that, therefore his appetite for his lunch was entirely unspoiled. He was feeling hungry, relaxed and tolerably happy as he strode into the formal dining room.
The usual company was there, politely waiting for Chegory to enter before they seated themselves. There was the olive-skinned Ivan Pokrov, head of the Analytical Institute and master of the Analytical Engine. The Ashdan mathematician Artemis Ingalawa, who had been labouring as usual to develop algorithms for the use of the aforesaid engine. Olivia Qasaba, who had worked all morning in the Dromdanjerie before making her way to Jod. Last but not least, Chegory’s coeval Ox No Zan, the foreign student who had come all the way from Babrika to study under Ivan Pokrov. Today young No was looking decidedly miserable because he had an appointment that afternoon with Doctor Death the dentist.
As Chegory entered the room there was a scraping of chairs as these habitual dinner companions seated themselves. All but Ingalawa, who had one thing she had to do before she relaxed.
‘What’s for lunch?’ said Chegory.
‘Sea slugs,’ said Olivia.
‘Oh, good,’ said Chegory, with predictable enthusiasm.
‘And flying fish,’ said Olivia.
‘Better still!’ said Chegory, pulling out a chair as if to sit.
‘Hands!’ said Ingalawa.
This hand-check was the one duty restraining her from relaxation. She took it very seriously indeed.
Reluctantly Chegory extended his paws.
‘I did wash them,’ he said. ‘Right after I fed the Hermit Crab. I gave them a good wash.’
‘They’re filthy!’ said Ingalawa. ‘Look! Black gunge under the nails!’
Chegory blushed so fiercely that the flush was visible even though he was redskinned to start with.
‘Well, what do you expect,’ he said. ‘That’s rock gardening for you.’
‘You’ve got rakes, shovels and god knows what. Why do you need to go grubbing about with your hands?’ ‘Because,’ said Chegory. ‘It’s technical.’
‘What’s technical about rocks?’ said Ingalawa.
‘If you must know,’ said Chegory. ‘I was cleaning out the grease trap, you know, where all the kitchen water-’ ‘What on earth were you doing that for?’
Chegory began to get worked up. Angry, even.
‘Well, it was rocks, okay, my rocks had got into there, I mean I didn’t put them there, it was probably those kids, you know, that Marthandorthan bunch, they come over the harbour bridge in the evenings, they just run riot. Okay, so it’s all rocks in there and a whole lot of filth and muck and stuff. So what am I supposed to do, make some big thing out of it? I mean, who does it if I don’t?’
‘You still could have-’
‘Oh, leave the boy alone,’ said Pokrov. ‘Let’s eat.’ ‘Before he’s washed his hands?’ said Ingalawa.
‘He’s not going to suck the stuff from under his nails, is he? Sit down the pair of you. Eat, eat!’
With some reluctance Ingalawa abandoned the civilisation of Chegory Guy for the moment and seated herself. Chegory, smarting still from Ingalawa’s reprimand, took his own place. Olivia grinned at him from across the table. She already had a flying fish on her plate and was teasing its wings open and shut with her fingers as if pretending it was still flying. Her grin was inciting Chegory to do the same. He was sorely tempted — but a glance at Ingalawa showed him the scholarly Ashdan female was still dragonising him.
A moment later, she saw what Olivia was doing. ‘Olivia!’
This said to the accompaniment of a hand slammed down on the table.
‘It’s Chegory’s fault,’ said Olivia, dropping the wings of her flying fish. ‘He dared me to.’
Chegory kicked her under the table. Olivia kicked him back, hard. He caught her ankle. Drove his thumb into a pressure point between the heel’s tendon and the associated bone. Olivia wrenched her leg back. Such was the violence of her reaction that her knee slammed into the underside of the table with a resounding thump which upset the curry powder and spilt the flying fish sauce.
‘That’s enough!’ shouted Ingalawa.
Olivia looked at Chegory.
Chegory looked back.
He winked.
Olivia clutched her hands to her face as if vomiting. Actually, she was trying to stifle a fit of giggling. She was not entirely successful.
‘I’m serious,’ said Ingalawa, in her now-you-are-adults-not-children-and-I-expect-you-to-behave-accordingly voice. ‘Any more nonsense out of either of you and you can get down from the table and go and eat in the kitchen.’
‘Oh, can we?’ said Olivia eagerly.
‘No!’ said Ingalawa.
‘Would anyone care for some iced water?’ said Ox No Zan.
He was sorely distressed by the display of bad manners which had disrupted the meal. In his home city of Babrika such conflict would be unthinkable. Any young person rude enough so to misbehave in front of an elder would be… well, skinning alive would be the least of it.
‘Thank you,’ said Ingalawa, seeing No’s discomfort and thus, out of courtesy, allowing his attempted diplomatic intervention to succeed and bring the scene to an end.
Some time later, when the meal was well underway, Artemis Ingalawa broke the news to Ivan Pokrov. He had been invited to dine at the Qasaba household that evening. He said he would think about it.
Why such hesitation?
Because Jon Qasaba was in the habit of probing Pokrov.
Who preferred to conceal his true age, provenance and past. Ivan Pokrov was a some-time citizen of the Golden Gulag, and, even though the Gulag had collapsed in war twenty thousand years ago, old habits die hard.
Pokrov was reticent about his true identity because he was a criminal on the run. He had offended against Injunction AA709/4383200/1408 of version 7c of the Authorised Penal Code of the Golden Gulag. A heinous crime indeed! What’s more, a crime unpunished to date, for so far Ivan Pokrov had escaped the extended algetic tutoring he so richly deserved.
‘You must come,’ insisted Ingalawa. ‘Jon keeps saying we haven’t enjoyed your company for… why, he says it feels like a passage of millennia.’
Ivan Pokrov, who was already sweating because of the heat of the day, began to sweat all the more. Was Ingalawa hinting that all was known already?
Before Pokrov could worry about it further, a servant entered to say that a visitor was demanding an audience with him.
‘We’re in the middle of lunch,’ said Pokrov.
‘The visitor,’ said the servant, ‘is the Master of Law. Aquitaine Varazchavardan.’
