‘Chop off whose heads?’ said a guard.
‘All of them!’ said Varazchavardan, with a wave of his hand which doomed all the prisoners to instant death. ‘The Ebby. The Ashdans. The mad daughter of the madman Thrug.’
‘You mean… you mean the Empress?’
‘By Sqilth and Zigletz!’ said Varazchavardan. ‘Didn’t I just say as much but a moment ago? Who do you think I mean? The Green Octopus of Outer Branpapia?’
Silence.
Silence from the Empress, too enraged to speak.
Silence from Olivia, too shocked to speak.
Silence from Uckermark — a fatalist at heart.
Silence also from Chegory Guy, who was now (he was an Ebrell Islander, remember!) waiting for any momentary chance in which he might get the opportunity to kill V arazchavardan.
Then Odolo piped up, and this is what the conjuror said: ‘If you please, I’ve… I’ve no strong political beliefs of my own. There’s no need to kill me, for I’ll happily serve the victor.’
‘Silence!’ said Varazchavardan. Then: ‘Kill them!’
But still his guards made no move to lop off heads. After five years of the benevolent rule of Justina, they were quite out of the habit of executing people. Besides, they were all in their best dress uniforms, which had been bought at their own expense, were hideously expensive, and would get mined entirely if they obeyed Varazchavardan then and there. After all, it takes but a cup of blood to besplatter a man from head to toe, and those of you who have seen a judicial decapitation will agree that the spillage from such is far greater and that the chances of the executioner avoiding the outspurt are negligible.
Thus, while the guards had no special regard for the Empress, they were far from keen about the idea of instant executions. At the very least they wanted the chance to put on some old clothes before they started chopping heads.
‘Sir,’ said Bro Drumel, understanding his men’s hesitation, ‘sir, if you please, sir, execution would best be done later, sir, in accordance with the proper forms, sir. Sir, shall I have the prisoners taken away, sir?’
Another drop of blood dripped from Varazchavardan’s tom cheek and fell to the pink, pink tiles of the Star Chamber.
‘You can have them taken away,’ said Varazchavardan grimly, ‘when they’re all dead.’
So saying, he seized a scimitar from one of his guards. He stalked toward Odolo, intent on murder. He would save Justina to the last. She could have the pleasure of watching all her underlings get slaughtered before she herself fell beneath the blade. As Varazchavardan advanced upon Odolo, the cowardly conjuror made no move to defend himself, but instead grovelled at the sorcerer’s feet.
‘Sit up!’ said Varazchavardan, who wanted a clear target to swing at.
Odolo reluctantly sat on his thighs.
‘Raise your head,’ said Varazchavardan. ‘Come on! Chin up!’
Odolo complied.
Reluctantly.
Varazchavardan grimaced. He did not really want to do this. Like the guards, he disliked the idea of getting blood all over his clothes. If he were to behead the conjuror there would be no way to avoid such a besmirchment. Furthermore, he was wearing his favourite robes. Besides: what if Odolo flinched? Then the blade might well hack out a piece of his skull and leave him alive and screaming. Unless an expert is in charge, execution by decapitation can take a long time and be very, very messy. Still, politics is politics, so Varazchavardan had no choice.
He drew back the scimitar.
He struck.
He put all his strength into the blow.
The scimitar swept toward the conjuror’s neck.
Then burst into splinters.
Olivia screamed. Justina screamed. Ingalawa (to her shame!) screamed also. Uckermark stared in disbelief. Dolglin Chin Xter fainted. Then Chegory Guy made his move. The husky young Ebrell Islander tried to burst free- but his guards restrained him.
‘Sir!’ said Bro Drumel urgently. ‘Are you hurt?’
Varazchavardan, who had clapped a hand to his cheek, brought it away bloody. He had a fresh wound in addition to the claw-marks where Justina had scored him. A piece of shrapnel had pierced his flesh. The splinter of steel was half-projecting from his wound.
‘Odolo!’ said Varazchavardan.
He turned his bloody eyes on the conjuror. He raised his hands. He cried:
‘Jenjobo! Jenjobo! Dandoon! Dandoon!’
Smoke wreathed from Varazchavardan’s fingertips and surged toward the conjuror. The smoke formed, turned into a fifty-fingered monster, a monster dire, a monster huge, a thing of volcanic height and night-bat shadows, a thing which screamed with a lunatic voice which was half whip-crack hate and half insanity. The monster closed with the conjuror. With a death-scream, it struck at Odolo Then, on an instant, dissolved.
One moment it was there. A moment later, it had collapsed.
The collapsed remnants of the monster spilt to the floor and flowed away in all directions, steaming slightly. The monster had been converted to a flood of chowder and kedgeree.
‘Nadinkos!’ said Varazchavardan, now ankle-deep in this food-flood. Then he swore again. Then raised his hands again. In a voice of outraged fury he shouted: ‘Wenfardigo! Wenfardigo! Doktoris! Doktoris! Ko!’
On an instant a nightmarish beast formed itself from the very air. It was a creature of horror, a screaming fiend with scrabbling claws and teeth demonic. It breathed out smoke, then sulphur, then screamed again — and then attacked. But before it could open so much as a needle-point pin-prick in Odolo’s hide, it collapsed into a slather of very hot curry, adding heat and pungency to the slovenly carpet of chowder and kedgeree which had already polluted the Star Chamber.
‘That does it!’ said Varazchavardan.
Once more he raised his hands. He took a deep breath. Then he cried out again in a high, twisted language. There was a crash of thunder. A blinding flash of light. Then a hideous scream of tearing stone and rending metal.
Most people who could — fled.
Bro Drumel fled.
Chegory Guy’s guards fled.
But Chegory himself stood his ground.
Those who (like Chegory) were fool enough to linger were privileged to see Varazchavardan and Odolo grappling with each. Both had Changed. To things of stone and steel. To things inhuman which tore each other with energies unearthly.
For half a heartbeat, Chegory Guy watched these two monster-made Powers battling with each other. Then, ruled by the dictates of sanity, Chegory fled. He burst out of the Star Chamber and ran mindlessly until he collided with someone. The collision sent him sliding to the floor.
‘You,’ said tones far from unfamiliar, ‘have been walking in your food.’
Panting, Chegory looked up. The speaker was none other than Slanic Moldova. Having said his piece, the lunatic returned to his mural.
‘Sian,’ said Chegory, ‘get out of here. There’s wonderworkers at war in the Star Chamber. Sian. Do you hear me? Sian!’
But Moldova ignored him.
So Chegory picked himself up, scraped the curry, kedgeree and chowder from his feet. Then started to think. Where was Olivia? Where Ingalawa?
He dared a shout:
‘Olivia!’
Someone came running from the direction of the Star Chamber. A soldier with a torn ear.
‘Stop!’ said Chegory. ‘What’s happening back there?’
But the soldier ran past without stopping. After him came the corpse master Uckermark.
