further until both were dislocated.
‘Show them in,’ said Juliet Idaho decisively.
Two acolytes moved to obey.
In came a redskin, the heavily muscled Chegory Guy, with Olivia Qasaba beside him.
‘We’re here with a, a message,’ said Chegory, holding tight to his sledge hammer, his sole source of comfort and reassurance in this most difficult of situations.
‘Yes,’ said Olivia, in a firm though girlish voice. ‘The Crab brings pardons for those who obey. As long as… as…’
‘If it’s now,’ said Chegory. ‘Now that they obey, I mean. If they obey later, it’ll be too late.’
‘That’s right,’ said Olivia.
‘The Crab’s wazir,’ said Chegory. ‘Hence should command obedience. Yes, wazir, that’s what the Crab is. Wazir of Untunchilamon. And it orders, uh, the immediate release of the Empress Justina. Of course. And Juliet Idaho, Shanvil May, Pokrov and, uh, the wizard here.’ ‘Or else,’ said Olivia.
‘So get moving,’ said Chegory. ‘Zozimus, he’s the most important. The Crab is hungry. It wants its next meal. And fast. Oh, you’ve got centipedes! Good, we’ll take those. And, um, there was someone we had to, what was it?’
‘Bring along,’ said Olivia. ‘Tin Char, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Chegory. ‘Dui Tin Char. That’s you, isn’t it? Come along then. The Crab wants to see you.’
Dui Tin Char howled in anguish and then, reluctantly, submitted to the inevitable.
For the Crab was a Power which none on Untunchilamon durst disobey.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Naturally, there was consternation in Injiltaprajura when it was known that the Crab had declared itself wazir. But, in the days that followed, remarkably little changed. Decrees were published in the name of the Crab, saying that Justina Thrug should remain in the pink palace for the time being as its custodian; that religious freedom should prevail as before; and that all civil and uncivil servants were temporarily confirmed in their positions.
Thus consternation was soon replaced with disappointment; for the mob saw that there were to be no wholesale torturing or executions, no mass arrests or persecutions, no opportunities for looting and rampage; and a sense of anticlimax prevailed in the city.
Nevertheless, while there was no, major public drama in those days, there were private dramas in plenty, as there always are in any great city. And, turning our attention to one of those dramas, let us record the following:
This was the number: 011010100001.
And this was the demand:
One thousand dragons.
And the lever was a page of the Injiltaprajuradariski, The Secret History of Injiltaprajura, a work now gaining a certain underground fame on Untunchilamon.
Bro Drumel read the page through yet one more time. Was it really as dangerous as he had thought at first blush? He was inclined to think that it was.
So what was he to do?
Pay the thousand dragons?
He could. But doubtless there would be further demands to follow the first. For such was the nature of blackmail. So what was the alternative? Hunt down the blackmailer and kill him. Obviously. But much easier said than done. In fact, it might well prove impossible.
Bro Drumel, captain of Justina’s palace guard and Governor of Moremo Maximum Security Prison, began to work on his fingernails, easing the overgrowth of skin back from each moon in turn. While his skin was Janjuladoola grey, the fingernails themselves were a blood*flushed pink. Pink nails. White moons. He found them fascinating. And beautiful. Indeed, Bro Drumel had little eye for the sculptural masses which make up the body as a whole. What delighted him was the elegant finishing touches. Fingernails. Earlobes. Eyes.
Those oh-so-elegant finishing touches which so delight the torturer.
Bro Drumel looked out of the window of his office in Moremo. He closed his right eye experimentally. And, as he had expected, the view dimmed.
Year by year, the colours perceived by his left eye had slowly been growing darker and dimmer. He supposed that in the fullness of titne he would go blind in that eye. He could live with that. He could face the thought of such idiosyncratic failures of the flesh, and the inevitable generalized degeneration of old age which must one day follow.
But the horror that would befall him if he became a victim of the rage of Aldarch Three…
Bro Drumel squeezed both eyes tight, trying to close out light, thought and vision together.
If he did yield to blackmail, his persecutor would hand certain documentation to Master Ek, High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral. Then certain doom would in due course befall him. So what should he do?
Bro Drumel fought with panic.
And, finally, decided to go and see the Empress Justina.
The Empress had been restored to the pink palace five days earlier, after her release had been ordered in the name of the Crab. Since she had the Crab’s favour, perhaps — just possibly — she could give Bro Drumel some help. Or reassurance at least.
But, first, he should shave.
Soon Bro Drumel was at work, soothing the steel across his skin. He paused in his work. Slid two fingers to the carotid artery which lay beside his windpipe. The skin was hot. Hot and slightly sweaty. The pulse beat beneath his fingers. A rhythm strong and slow. He made his resolution. Both jugular veins and both carotids and the windpipe too. A single sweep. A grin.
That’s all it takes.
He would do it.
Yes, if torture threatened, he would do it.
And, now that he knew he would never be taken alive, Bro Drumel felt stronger, calmer and more confident. The game was not over yet. And, while the game yet ran, life was still sweet, and had many, many satisfactions.
Shortly, a clean-shaven Bro Drumel was at the pink palace and deep in conference with the Empress Justina and Juliet Idaho. Both the Empress and her untame Yudonic Knight examined the blackmail documents with interest.
What particularly attracted their attention was the page from the Injiltaprajuradariski which had been sent to Bro Drumel. The page was a sheet of ricepaper covered with scorpioned Ashdan orthography scripted in purple ink. The words were in Slandolin, the literary language of Ashmolea South. While neither Justina nor Idaho could read this tongue, both by now could recognize a text written in that argot.
‘You’ve had it translated, I take it,’ said Justina.
‘I have,’ said Bro Drumel.
‘What does it say?’said Idaho.
‘It… well…’
‘Out with it!’ said Idaho, harshening his voice.
‘Peace, Julie,’ said Justina, laying one heavy and sweaty hand upon Idaho’s wrist.
‘But we must know what it says,’ growled Idaho. ‘Or must we call in our own translator?’
‘It… it tells of a… a relationship between myself and our Empress,’ said Bro Drumel. ‘My blackmailer threatens to send a duplicate copy to Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek.’
‘And what if he does?’ said Justina.
‘It… this would damn me in the eyes of Aldarch Three,’ said Bro Drumel.
