agony.
Such weather produces certain types of madness much feared on Untunchilamon. There is for example the mind-state called (to name it in Janjuladoola) talabrapalau, when one lives in fear of bursting into flame in an episode of spontaneous conflagration. Another psychosis, the name of which escapes me, has one believing that the rocks will ignite. I have also met a man who feared he would dissolve into sweat, flow through the windows of the Dromdanjerie, tumble down the precipitous slopes of Skindik Way to Lubos, muck through the slum-filth then splosh into the Laitemata.
Thus we see that madness is specific to culture. We see this elsewhere, indeed. For example, in the city of Babrika, where everything is so mannerly, where politeness rules all and no voice is ever raised in anger, it happens that from time to time an individual will run amok and hack through the marketplace until being overpowered then chopped into pieces no larger than your baby’s thumb.
On the Ebrells, on the other hand, certain individuals revolt against the life of the organism, showing their hatred for the degeneracy of their fellows by developing a condition known as Pinch, when they refuse food and starve themselves to death. Strangely, while thus starving they delude themselves that they are healthy and getting healthier.
In Obooloo, of course, religious mania takes its toll, whereas on the island of Odrum [Here sundry slanders and laboriously erroneous pedantries have been deleted. By Order. Vendano, Guardian of the Honour of Odrum.]
Thus it was that Chegory and his companions were a muck of sweat as they laboured up Lak Street to the palace where the Empress Justina held court. The palace! A monument to eroticism. The pink thighs of its walls. The breasts of its cupolas. Sweet indeed it would have been, but for the intolerable reflections from the glitter dome, which was very agony to look at.
The redskinned Ebrell Islander and his escorts penetrated the pink flesh of Justina’s palace. After the light of the sun, everything was muted except the heat. An usher intercepted them, asked their mission, then showed them to the Star Chamber where the depositions hearing would take place. On the way, they passed the saturnine Slanic Moldova, at work on his great mural, which bears the title ‘Sky Worshipping The Kraken Her Master’.
‘Hello, Sian,’ said Olivia, pausing to look at his work.
Chegory paused with her. Slanic Moldova was working at full pitch, brush darting and sweeping, flashing from palette to wall. Then to flesh. Before Chegory could pull back, Moldova had swept blue paint from Chegory’s eyebrows to his chin.
‘Zoso!’ said Olivia sharply.
At the enunciation of this phrase, Moldova’s paint-hand swayed to a halt as he fell into a hypnotic trance. Olivia took his hand and gently guided brush to wall, knowing he would work on for much of the rest of the day without waking from his trance.
‘Hurry!’ said the usher, with a note of urgency. ‘Hurry, else the hearing will start without you.’
So they husded on down the hall, with Chegory making frantic efforts to clean his face. But mural paint is notoriously difficult to remove.
‘Stop!’ said Ingalawa, as they reached the portal to the Star Chamber.
She could see the hearings were not yet underway. They yet had time. She whipped out a clean sweat rag and attacked the paint on Chegory’s face.
‘Leave that young man alone,’ said a voice of command. It was the voice of Aquitaine Varazchavardan, Master of Law to the Empress Justina. ‘Come,’ said Varazchavardan. ‘The depositions hearing is about to begin.’
‘Just let me just clean his face,’ said Ingalawa, renewing her onslaught on the streak of sky besmirching Chegory’s flame-red complexion.
‘How dare you!’ said Varazchavardan, snatching the rag away. ‘Interfere with this witness again and I’ll have you hung, strung and gutted.’
They stared at each other. A startling contrast they made. Varazchavardan with his eyes of pink. Ingalawa with orbs as dark as the moonless sea. Varazchavardan with his skin as white as the greater narjorgo corpse worm. Ingalawa with her coal-gloss skin as dark as the plumage of the dark lartle, that bad-tempered sharp-beaked bird of Wen Endex.
As Varazchavardan had the full weight and majesty of the state behind him, it was Ingalawa who had to drop her eyes and give way. Thus Chegory entered the Star Chamber with a broad band of blue slashed across his face. He looked quite the clown. Like an actor from the Broko Comedy Theatre, in fact. Though there was nothing amusing about his predicament.
The Star Chamber was the newest part of the pink palace. It was a large hall which had been tacked on to the northern side of the palace. Its pink walls rose to a pink dome high above. Windows inset where wall met dome allowed a pink-tinged light to flood the room, which was tiled with pink tiles, and came complete with a pink- painted mezzanine floor supported by pillars of pink stone. Today the Star Chamber was almost empty, for crushing heat had dissuaded the idle elements of the rabble from attending. A few messenger boys and lawyers’ clerks hung around, chewing on betel nut or sticks of pandanus, but the bulk of the mob was absent.
Artemis Ingalawa seated herself with authority on one of the long benches of woven bamboo provided for onlookers. She looked around severely. She was in her power mood, her managing mood, her executive mood. In which she was potentially very dangerous. Note that while Artemis Ingalawa had been born into the culture of elegance which dominates Ashmolea South, her family actually came from Ashmolea North. There the Ingalawa clan is notorious for breeding slaughter swords and assassins.
Blood will tell!
Chegory, fearing as much, hoped Ingalawa would not precipitate any untoward incidents. If she did, he didn’t think he could cope. He was too tired. So tired he would need but to close his eyes to voyage instantly into dreams. But his blood rose on the moment to the alert when Olivia seated herself beside him and took his hand. Ah yes! He rose and roused! Consumed by thoughts of juice and softness, of the monstrous secret crouched between her thighs, of harlot-fingered night engorging the cravings of her pubic whirlpool, of [Here a lengthy and turgid digression of considerable improbability has been excised. By Order, Drax Lira, Redactor Major.]
Yet Chegory’s pleasure was not perfected by Olivia’s presence, for he was all too conscious of Varazchavardan’s pink eyes dragonising him. The white-fleshed Master of Law had a predator’s eyes and claws to match. When Chegory closed his own eyes to avoid that implacable stare, he could not help but imagine those claws whittling away his flesh till they reached his very bones.
Slowly, the other actors in this courtroom drama gathered into the Star Chamber. Here came the conjuror Odolo. Sweating — and not just because of the heat. Then the Empress Justina arrived, handbag in hand, to spectate at the depositions hearing — the actual conduct of which would be governed by Judge Qil.
On this day of butterfly dreams and banana-skinned decision [Words doubtless senseless, but there is no helping that. Often one suspects that the Version we are translating from is hopelessly corrupt. But what can one expect from a madman? This insertion here placed by Valther Nash, Consulting Translator.]
— the Empress was wearing a curious confection which was composed mostly of string, with but a little silk at each of the seven Strategic Places.
[One of the Strategic Places is the omphalos, but I have been unable to precisely locate the other six. These matters are dealt with in detail in the Book of Flesh, but access to this scholarly treatise has been denied to me by a prudish Librarian Major. Oris Baumgage, Fact Checker Minor.]
The Empress smiled upon Chegory Guy, her smile making it very, very clear that she had not forgotten him. Then she saw Olivia was cosseting Chegory’s hand.
‘Who is your charming young friend?’ said Justina, in tones less than entirely friendly.
‘This is but — but a friend of my family,’ said Chegory, inventing as best he could.
Was Olivia at risk? Perhaps! Yet Chegory, feeling her stiffen, knew he should not have spoken of her in such dismissive tones. She was offended. She was, after all, an Ashdan — and these people have far more pride than the rest of us.
‘What kind of friend?’ said Justina, in tones auger-sharp. Sweat dripped from Chegory Guy’s forehead as he sought desperately for some adroit way to resolve his difficulties; that is, to divert Justina’s attention from Olivia without offending that delicious young personage. He failed entirely. To his horror, he heard himself saying:
‘Oh, just some Ashdan.’
