There was no way they could outrun the guards when Chegory was burdened by the weight of the Empress.
But he did his best.
He was young, fit and muscular, his body hardened by sledgehammering rocks on Jod for day after day under the blazing sun. The soldiers were soft, overfed and out of condition thanks to long years of eventless garrison routine. Chegory was still outpacing them when he burst into the foyer of the pink palace.
Shouting greeted his ears.
A mob of beggars, petitioners, priests and sundry would-be looters was crowding the palace portico and seeking admission. A handful of guards were keeping them back. Chegory, Ingalawa, Olivia and Vazzy the Ape slammed into the guards from behind, broke through that thin line of military menace, and forged their way into the crowd.
Those few soldiers who tried to follow them were pulled down by the mob. Then were kicked and bruised most horribly before their fellows rescued them and pulled them back to the safety of the pink palace. After a prolonged struggle, the guards at last beat back the mob, closed the palace doors and secured this fortress against immediate entry. But by that time, of course, Chegory and his companions were far away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
When Chegory and his companions got to the waterfront they found the entire surface of the Laitemata covered with solidified dikle.
For days the wealth fountains of Jod had been pouring out both bile-green dikle and grey shlug. These two substances, when mixed, form an oily, irisated fluid with a specific gravity nearly identical to that of seawater. But, given calm conditions, the shlug will precipitate out, sinking to layer the seabottom rocks with a grey ooze which kills all ground-dwelling life, while the dikle will float to the top and harden into a slightly plastic crust. During the night the two substances in question had so separated. With the result that the Laitemata was a flat green plain. The sun beat down, but the sun, though hot, was not hot enough to melt the dikle.
‘It looks solid,’ said Olivia. ‘Maybe we could walk on it.’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ said Ingalawa. ‘It’s thixotropic. That means-’
‘Oh, I know what it means,’ said Olivia.
Then they started out over the harbour bridge.
Vazzy lingered, hooting mournfully.
‘Don’t be frightened!’ said Olivia. But the albinotic ape refused to dare the dangers of the bridge. ‘Oh, don’t be silly!’ said Olivia, and went back, meaning to take it by the hand.
But Vazzy loped away to the buildings.
‘Come on!’ said Artemis Ingalawa, in her this-is-serious-business-and-no-time-to-be-playing-with-apes voice.
So Olivia ran after the others and soon caught them up.
Ahead lay the island of Jod where the bright white marble of the Analytical Institute gleamed in the sun. A little smoke rose from the Institute’s kitchen, reminding Ingalawa and Olivia that they had not had breakfast. Chegory, however, thought not about food. He was working far too hard for that. He had the unconscious corpus of the Empress Justina slung across his shoulders — and she was a fair weight. So he said nothing until, when he was half way across the bridge, he was met by a bright-singing bubble of light.
‘Hello, Chegory!’ sang Shabble.
‘Hi,’ said Chegory, without any great outburst of enthusiasm.
‘Oh, it is good to see you, Chegory dearest,’ said Shabble happily. ‘You were gone so long! I thought you were gone for good!’
‘I notice you didn’t come looking for me,’ said Chegory, as he strode along purposefully, proud of his ability to carry his burden at a vigorous pace.
‘I couldn’d There’s the demon, isn’t there? In the palace!’
‘No,’ said Chegory. ‘The demon’s right here. In the Empress Justina.’
On receiving this alarming intelligence, Shabble squeaked with fright and soared high, high into the air. On strode Chegory. Jod’s wealth fountains had ceased outpouring dikle and shlug sometime during the night, so he was able to carry the Empress to the island without slushing through a disgusting chemical outpour. By the time he and his companions had reached the main entrance of the Analytical Institute, Shabble had descended from the heavens. The imitator of suns feared the demon Binchinminfin — yet was consumed by curiosity. What had happened? Furthermore, what would happen now?
Shabble was not alone in curiosity.
Sentries posted by the nervous denizens of Jod had spotted Chegory, Ingalawa and Olivia as soon as they set foot on the harbour bridge. By the time they had reached the Analytical Institute with the Empress, virtually everyone on the island had gathered to find out what was happening.
The press of people was so great that Chegory could not get the Empress inside, and had no option but to put her down. He stood, flexed his back, flexed his arms, then grinned. He could not help his own pride in his strength. His physical supremacy. Even though he knew that such an asset was of little account in the present crisis.
What a crowd! Odolo was there. So was Ivan Pokrov. The Malud marauders, of course. Guest Gulkan and all those of his faction, including the two wizards Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin and Pelagius Zozimus. The kitchen staff. Sundry mechanics and algorithmists. Then there were others, including some quite unknown to Chegory who were refugees from the mainland. All had their questions, and at first the impatient interrogative uproar made for quite intolerable confusion.
‘Where,’ shouted Guest Gulkan, in a fury, ‘is the wishstone? Don’t say you left it behind!’
‘The hell with the wishstone!’ said Chegory.
‘So you did leave it behind!’ said Guest Gulkan.
Then swore. The pretender to the throne of Tameran was so angry that he might have done Chegory a violence if the bullman Logjaris had not intervened.
‘That’s enough!’ said Log Jaris. ‘Enough from the pair of you!’ Then he called all present to order. ‘Speak, Chegory,’ said Logjaris. ‘Tell us what’s been going on.’ ‘What hasn’t!’ said Chegory.
Then gathered his breath, gathered his thoughts, and began. While his speech tended toward incoherence under emotional pressure, when he controlled himself and took his time he was capable of something approaching verbal fluency. Indeed, young Chegory gave the assembly a surprisingly perspicuous and accurate account of recent events in the pink palace and assured them that, in all probability, the demon Binchinminfin was instantly in possession of the body of the Empress Justina.
‘Only one thing for it, then,’ said Pelagius Zozimus, briskly rubbing his hands. ‘Exorcism.’
‘Exorcism?’ said Chegory.
‘We drive the demon from Justina’s body,’ said Zozimus.
‘Is that safe?’ said a kitchen hand.
‘Safe?’ said Zozimus. ‘There’s no safe course here! There’s danger whatever we do. Shall we kill the Empress? We could. The demon Binchinminfin would die with her flesh. Or at least be expelled to the World Beyond. But where does that leave us? With Varazchavardan in the pink palace — ready to enforce the will of Aldarch the Third. Which of us could then hope to leave here alive? No, we need the Empress. With her as figurehead we can war against Varazchavardan with every hope of success. Nine-tenths of Injiltaprajura will hold her in loyalty, surely. No. Look not for safety. Instead — make yourself useful. Help me get the woman inside.’
Then Justina was taken to Ivan Pokrov’s private quartos, most of the onlookers were banished, and Pelagius Zozimus began to prepare for the exorcism. Chegory Guy insisted on being present lest Zozimus murder his Empress. Ingalawa insisted likewise. She had brought along her scimitar and was prepared to use it if this foreign wizard proved to be treacherous. Uckermark, Log Jaris and the three Malud marauders also wanted to watch, since all had a financial interest in Justina’s survival.
Pelagius Zozimus had only the most honourable of intentions. Nevertheless, he knew parts of the exorcism
