Ek opened the warrant with difficulty, inwardly cursing the pains that shot through his fingers as he grappled with the parchment. Strange. His hands had been free of pain all morning till now. He studied the death warrant. Genuine? Probably. He passed it to Tin Char, then, to conceal his inward turmoil, took out his black tobacco pouch and began rolling a cigarette.
A long and most embarrassing silence then began, for Ek said nothing as he smoked his way through a cigarette then rolled himself another. That was his privilege. In the Janjuladoola system, the High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral was superior to everyone else on Untunchilamon except the wazir.
And, as yet, Untunchilamon did not have a wazir.
For, though Manthandros Trasilika claimed to have been appointed to that position, he needed to be ceremoniously installed by Master Ek himself. Until then, Trasilika’s appointment had no legal force. Until then, he was wazir in name only, and not in fact.
As Ek sat smoking, he looked for all the world like a smoke-shriveiled corpse. Only his eyes betrayed the bright life of his intellect. But even the eyes failed to hint at the confusion which currently reigned in that intellect.
The source of Ek’s confusion was the scrap of ricepaper hidden in his tobacco pouch, the tantalizing fragment of purple-scripted manuscript which said just this:
‘… to become immortal. Immortality is easily achieved if one has possession of an organic rectifier. On Untunchilamon…’
On Untunchilamon?
Maybe there was such an ‘organic rectifier’ on Untunchilamon. Maybe Ek had a chance of immortality.
So thinking, Master Ek had sent Nixorjapretzel Rat in search of the rest of this purple passage. But Ek had yet to profit from the Rat’s pursuit of this Secret History. And, now, it was too late. For, if one of these ‘organic rectifiers’ was to be somehow uncovered, the new wazir would doubtless claim it on behalf of Aldarch Three.
Was that a problem? An outsider would probably have answered ‘no’. For Aldarch the Third was a worshipper of Zoz the Ancestral. Why then should the Mutilator deny immortality to the priesthood of Zoz? Ek, who was an insider’s insider, knew the answer to that all too well. An immortal Mutilator would doubtless prefer a mortal priesthood, fearing political threats from priests who had all of eternity in which to indulge in political manoeuvring.
‘Is there a problem?’ said the heavyweight at last, intruding on Ek’s silence.
‘Yes,’ said Ek.
‘May we… may we know the nature of this problem?’ said the slender man in his thirties who had identified himself as Jean Froissart.
Ek coughed, hawked, spat, ground out his cigarette then said:
‘I am old. I am seventy years old and I will never again set eyes on Obooloo. My bones bite, my spine twists, my bowels cramp, and my flesh lacks the appetite for the fourth major pleasure.’
The High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral indulged yet again in the first minor pleasure, then continued:
‘So there is a problem. There are several problems. But they are mine, not thine. Let us proceed with the consecration. I will install you as wazir here and now.’
‘What?’ said Tin Char, startled.
This was unheard of. The consecration of a new wazir was a very formal ceremony rightly carried out in public after the appropriate sacrificies and preliminaries.
‘You heard me,’ said Master Ek.
He knew he was offending against protocol and tradition; he knew Obooloo would take umbrage at his actions; ultimately, he might be reprimanded, or chastised, or recalled to Ang to be removed from the priesthood and executed. But he no longer cared. He was sick at heart and a great bitterness was upon him. His recent days had been brightened by the chance of life eternal; but now that chance had been taken from him, and all was blighted.
Therefore the ceremony of consecration was carried out in the Temple of Torture. It was a rushed, squalid affair which offended all those who participated in it. But, for legal purposes, it sufficed. By the end of the ceremony, the heavyweight had been installed as the new wazir of Untunchilamon, and his lightweight companion had been confirmed as the wazir’s personal priest.
‘Just one last thing remains,’ said Master Ek. ‘By what means do you choose to be called?’
‘Why, Manthandros Trasilika, of course,’ said the heavyweight promptly. ‘So I was born, so I will live, so I will die.’
This was an offence against custom, for a new wazir usually takes a new name when assuming his post. But Ek was too far gone to be troubled by such trifles.
‘So be it,’ said Ek. ‘As Manthandros Trasilika you will be known. And you? Do you claim the name Jean Froissart?’
‘It is my own,’ said Trasilika’s companion, ‘so what other should I claim?’
This question was both ignorant and rude, but Ek let it pass without comment, and said:
‘Then go forth into the world as wazir and priest, Trasilika and Froissart your names.’
‘Go forth we will,’ said Mathandros Trasilika. ‘First to secure the execution of Justina Thrug. Are there loyal troops we can call upon?’
‘That is for you to find out,’ said Ek, then walked away.
This was a display of breathtaking, almost suicidal insolence. Mathandros Trasilika was now the wazir of Untunchilamon. And no priest, not even a High Priest, treats a wazir with open contempt. Not if he values his head.
‘Hey!’ said Trasilika. ‘You can’t walk out on us like this!’
Ek, who for the moment did not value his head, went on walking. And Dui Tin Char said, smoothly:
‘Master Ek has been troubled of late, as have we all, for the island has been beset by nightmares of all descriptions. The drumming has been getting on his nerves of late.’
So spoke Tin Char; though in truth it was not Master Ek who was disturbed by Injiltaprajura’s drummers but Tin Char himself.
‘Drumming?’ said Trasilika.
‘Yes, yes, drumming,’ said Tin Char. ‘A hideous cult of diabolical inspiration which has the entire younger generation in its grip. And this is the least of the problems which have been worrying Master Ek. Be easy on the old man, for he has need of your mercy.’
‘Mercy!’ said Trasilika. ‘That’s as may be. But I have need of fighting men that j ustice may be done. ’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Froissart eagerly. ‘The witch must die.’ ‘And die she will,’ said Tin Char. ‘Today. For the troops are ready and waitin g. They have been waiting only for the arrival of the new wazir.’
So spoke Tin Char. And he was as good as his word. For, very shortly, arrangements were being made to secure the arrest and execution of Justina Thrug, self-styled empress of Untunchilamon.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
On the fateful day which was marked by the arrival of the good ship Oktobdoj, the Empress of Untunchilamon began her routine with a swim, followed by a breakfast of papaya, pineapple and flying fish. Even as she took her breakfast, her spies were proceeding toward the pink palace with news of the ships lately arrived in the Laitemata, one a general trader and the other a brothel ship.
However, Justina was not a dainty eater, and she had demolished her breakfast long before her spies reached the portals of her palace. She then proceeded to a meeting with her legal counsel.
Dardanalti was Justina’s lawyer, and a very good one he was. While he was of the Janjuladoola race, he was conscientious in his service to the usurper Thrug; for Dardanalti was one of those men for whom money takes precedence over prejudice, and Justina served him well. He was young, energetic, efficient, knowledgeable and cunning; better still, he did not belong to any of the Janjuladoola faiths, but adhered to the evolutionary heresy. This made him remarkable, for heretics of this breed were to be found almost exclusively among the Ebrell Islanders. Equally remarkable was Dardanalti’s ability to look crisp and cool regardless of the extremes of heat and humidity
