of Injiltaprajura,’ said Uckermark calmly. ‘That’s what you’ve got to worry about! Not planting an egg in her womb or picking up some disease which might kill you five years from now, or then again might not. Come! We delay!’ With that he hustled Chegory back to the feast. The hapless Cheggy hesitated at the fateful portal of the banqueting hall, then, knowing he had no alternative, plunged into the by-now-drunken uproar and rejoined his beloved Juzzy at table.
‘Wine!’ she commanded. ‘Drink! You’re getting left behind by everyone else!’
Chegory drank. His glass was refilled. Then, at imperial command, he needs must drink again. Dishes came and went. He ate of them scarcely without tasting. The fevered hubbub roared incomprehensible in his ears like something out of nightmare. From time to time an over-englutted guest would raise a demanding hand. A waiter would rush forward with a portable vomitorium into which the guest would disgorge, the better to make room for the next course. Chegory was shocked the first time he saw this, and was shocked all the more when the Empress herself made use of the same expedient.
‘Ah!’ she said, patting her midriff. ‘That feels better!’
‘I’m sure it does,’ muttered Cheggy darling.
Then seized his glass and drained it manfully.
A refill of his prescription was arranged on the instant. If he did have anaemia then it should be well and truly cured (or at least treated!) by the time the banquet ended — unless he died of his medicine in the interim.
By the time the last course arrived young Chegory felt as if he was floating on the waves of noise which arose from the drunken nobility of Injiltaprajura. The last course was ice-cream, a concoction made of fine-sliced ice mixed with goat’s milk and shredded coconut then frozen. Chegory tried to spoon the ice-cream into his mouth, but his hand shook, and the incompliant substance globbed from the implement on to his lap.
‘Oh Cheggy darling!’ said Justina with great concern. ‘You have a palsy! Waiter! More wine for the guest of honour!’
At Justina’s command, Chegory’s glass was topped up, even though it was almost full to start with.
‘I think,’ said Chegory, in a very deliberate voice, ‘I’ve had enough.’
‘But,’ said Justina, ‘the palsy! Besides — is your anaemia cured?’ She pinched one of his fingernails till the flesh beneath the nail blanched white. ‘No! Look, you’re almost bloodless! You can’t stop taking your medicine till you’re cured, can you now?’
So Chegory drank yet more.
He was well and truly feeling the side effects of his medicine. His ice-cream stumbled from spoon to table, to lap, to floor, or sprawled down his chin to his silks of yellow and green. He had to escape before he overdosed entirely and passed out. But how? Drunken inspiration seized him. He clutched his chest.
‘Angina,’ he gasped.
The Empress Justina laughed uproariously, and whacked him on the back.
‘There now, my waggish little fellow!’ she said. ‘Does that feel better?’
‘I’m afraid,’ said Chegory, doing his best to imitate the wheeze of a dying man, ‘that it… it doesn’t.’
‘Oh my darling Cheggy!’ said Justina in alarm. ‘Are you really ill?’
‘Yes,’ said Chegory. ‘Yes, yes.’
‘Then your darling Juzzy will kiss it better,’ said Justina.
She proceded to do just that, till Chegory abandoned resistance and declared himself cured. Even then Justina gave him one last kiss, for luck. The guests paid no attention to any of this activity for these still capable of cognition were intent on a disturbance at the hall’s main entrance.
‘Armed men!’ said Chegory.
‘Yes,’ said Justina carelessly. ‘Doubtless coming to chop off your head. To make the soup, you know. Soup for tomorrow’s lunch.’
Chegory lurched from his chair. But Justina grabbed him and hauled him back.
‘Sit down, silly boy! It’s a joke. Look, they’re bringing me a prisoner. The bullman, is it? No, it’s-’
‘By the looks of it,’ said the corpse master Uckermark, ‘Log Jaris has some captives. You may find this very, very interesting.’
Soon three prisoners of Ashdan race (or, as they would have called themselves, of the Malud) had been forced into the open square made by the three banqueting tables. They were the pirates from Asral.
‘What have we here?’ said Justina.
The bullman Log Jaris, who had a leather pouch at his side, advanced, bowed very low, then straightened up and said:
‘My lady fair, may I present to you three pirates from Asral. The old one is Al-ran Lars, the young one is Arnaut and the one of weightlifting build is Tolon. By their own confession they are the thieves who took the wishstone from the treasure.’
‘Where did you find them?’ said Justina.
‘Downstairs, my lady,’ said Log Jaris.
‘What on earth were they doing down there?’ said Justina. ‘The wishstone was found missing yesterday morning. They’ve had five quarters or more to run elsewhere.’
‘They tried to run, my lady,’ said Log Jaris. ‘However, they were caught by the demon of Jod, the notorious Shabble, who herded them this way and that through the underworld until they were lost beyond their own recovery. They escaped from Shabble by subterfuge but were thereafter unable to find their way out. I caught them myself when I went hunting with some friends and a pack of dogs.’ ‘Excellent work!’ said Justina. ‘Have you the wishstone with you?’
‘My lady,’ said Log Jaris.
He reached into the leather pouch that hung by his side and produced the wishstone itself. The glittering bauble shone in the light of chandeliers as he handed it over to the Empress Justina. She accepted it eagerly.
‘Oh,’ she said, fondling the facets of the glittering triakisoctahedron, ‘it’s so nice to have it back. I was so upset when I heard it was gone. Thank you, Log Jaris. In time you will be suitably rewarded. In the meantime — you must join us at banquet. Waiters! Throw out some of those drunks! Make room for Log Jaris! A chair for our friend! I know — bring in my throne! Let the bullman have my throne as a token of my esteem for him.’
This was very tactful of the Empress. Far more tactful than simply saying that no ordinary chair could be sure of supporting the bullman’s bulk.
‘As for the pirate people,’ said Justina, ‘put them in the starvation cage for the time being. We’ll decide what to do with them later.’
So the Malud marauders were herded into the starvation cage just behind the Empress. They were locked in and the key to their cage was, as law and protocol required, presented to the Empress. Sweating waiters, their poise temporarily vanquished, hauled Justina’s ebony throne into the banquet hall, and Log Jaris was then seated on this.
‘What a delightful turn of events,’ said Justina, placing both the key and the much-fondled wishstone on the table in front of her.
How Chegory longed to get his hands on the wishstone! Just for a few moments! Even though the conjuror Odolo had told him this bauble granted no wishes, he yet yearned to put its powers to the test.
‘It doesn’t work, you know,’ said Justina, seeing his gaze and interpreting it accurately.
‘Are you sure?’ said Chegory.
‘Positive,’ said Justina. ‘I tried it just now — and not for the first time, either. I wished I was sixteen once more. I wished I could lose some weight — enough, say, to make myself half a dozen coconuts lighter. I wished for Varazchavardan to turn into a frog, and I wished Log Jaris to have human form once more. I know he’s not happy as he is.’
‘You know Log Jaris?’ said Chegory, truly amazed at this.
‘Oh, I know everyone, everyone,’ said Justina. ‘Why, we even know each other, don’t we? You and I. We’ll know each other better yet my dear before the night is out. You really want to make a wish, Cheggy darling? Then touch! Wish! Imagine! Dare!’
With trembling hands Chegory reached out and touched the wishstone. It was warm. It vibrated softly beneath his fingertips. Internal rainbows flared, dissolved, reformed and flared again. Chegory closed his eyes.
He wished.
He wished not to be red. He wished he could be Ashdan black so he could marry Olivia and escape with her
