‘What’s the matter?’ said Shanvil Angarus May.
‘Nothing,’ said Chegory, resisting the temptation to say that he was overworked and overstressed, found it hard to sleep and had nightmares when he did, lived in fear of pregnancy and venereal diseases, saw assassins in shadows, and daily awaited the arrival of Aldarch the Third in person.
Then Chegory wiped his forehead again — something of a nervous tic, this — and strode uphill with an appearance of confidence which belied his inward state.
As bright-dawning istarlat gave way to the longueurs of salahanthara, the party of people from the island of Jod entered the shadows of the pink palace in company with Shanvil May.
‘Remember,’ said Ingalawa, ‘if there’s any bargaining done today, I want to have a say.’
‘I remember,’ said Pokrov meekly.
As the Analytical Institute drew its wealth from the sale of dikle and shlug, on which substances it had a monopoly, it needed no income from those feats of computation performed by its Engine. Hence Pokrov, whose pride and joy that Engine was, had in the past indulged himself by casually signing contracts promising great labours of analysis in return for the most paltry of financial rewards; a procedure which Ingalawa was determined must cease, for she felt the perceived value of algorithmical procedures to have been lessened by the terms of outright charity on which they had been made available to the world.
Ingalawa, then, still had hopes for the Institute’s future, despite the current political uncertainties. It had occurred to her that the Engine might prove of value to the wonder-workers of the Cabal House in their pursuit of a method whereby to transmute lead to gold (or coral, bloodstone, dogshit, mangos or old iron to gold — the sorcerers were not fussy, merely greedy). A linkage between Science and Magic might be the key to a golden age; and, were the virtues of such linkage to be amply demonstrated in short order, the Analytical Institute and its adherents might pursue happy-ever-afters even were Aldarch Three to arrive on Untunchilamon in person to supervise a wrathstorm.
These then arrived in the Star Chamber:
Chegory Guy
Olivia Qasaba
Ivan Pokrov
Artemis Ingalawa and
Shanvil Angarus May
And there to meet them were:
Justina Thrug
Juliet Idaho
Shanvil Angarus May
Dardanalti (Justina’s legal counsel)
Pelagius Zozimus (wizard and master chef to the Crab)
Molly (Justina’s new chef)
Log Jaris (Molly’s life companion)
Nixorjapretzel Rat (a prisoner)
Aquitaine Varazchavardan and the conjuror Odolo
Where then was Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin? A good question, but one to which none there gathered had the answer. Even Pelagius Zozimus had no knowledge of his cousin’s whereabouts; for Sken-Pitilkin, after doing a little poolside work on his airship, had dropped out of sight.
Regardless of the absence of Sken-Pitilkin, most of those who were of a certainty allied to the Empress Justina were gathered in the Star Chamber. Her sister Theodora was missing, and with good reason; for Theodora was enjoying the shipboard hospitality of Troldot Turbothot. Also aboard Turbothot’s ship were certain erstwhile allies of Pelagius Zozimus: the Yarglat barbarian Guest Gulkan and a cut-throat from Chi’ash-lan named Thayer Levant.
Justina darkly suspected that her twin sister was caballing with Turbothot and his crew (and perhaps with a certain shipload of Malud marauders also anchored in the Laitemata) in an effort to seize something (the contents of the treasury of Injiltaprajura, perhaps) from the final wreckage of the reign of the Family Thrug.
When Ivan Pokrov was brought before the Empress Justina, she began their session with a little speech:
‘Look around you. There are but fifteen of us in this room, and one of these a prisoner.’
‘Which one?’ said Pokrov.
‘Not you, Ivan dearest,’ said Justina. ‘It is young Rat’s misfortune that we have been forced to set bounds upon his liberties, for reasons on which I will soon enlarge. But first, reflect. Ultimately, we few alone stand against Aldarch Three and all his allies.’
‘Us and the Crab,’ said Chegory, staunchly perpetuating the life of the Big Lie.
‘Yes, the Crab,’ said Justina, with a sidelong glance at Varazchavardan. ‘But we know we can expect much more from the Crab if we provide it with the means to secure its dearest wish. That being, of course, to have human form.’
Here a pause.
‘I, too,’ rumbled Log Jaris, ‘would not be averse to such change.’
Molly’s life companion had the head and horns of a bull, for he had once dared the jaws of a transmogrification machine located Downstairs. The metamorphosis which he had then endured had succeeded in preserving his life, for it had concealed his identity at a time when many sought to kill him. However, Log Jaris was not exactly happy at the prospect of living out his days thus guised; and his dearest Molly, whose hands were formed like the paws of a cat, would have welcomed some cosmetic alteration herself.
‘By now,’ said Justina, ‘many of you will have heard rumours of an organic rectifier, a device said to have the power to change form and grant the gift of immortality. As I have said, there are but few of us here, and, we are by a multitude opposed.’
She paused.
Then fixed Ivan Pokrov with a steely gaze; or a gaze which, if it could not be described as steely, might justly be compared to the lethal onslaught of the eye-beams of the basilisk.
‘Pokrov,’ she said, in tones far different from those which had so sweetly crooned ‘Ivan dearest’.
‘My Empress knows me to be the most loyal of subjects,’ said the olive-skinned Pokrov.
‘Loyal in his inertia, perhaps,’ said Justina, ‘for no active opposition can be attributed to him. But when it comes to initiatives, loyalty is lacking. For Pokrov, himself immortal thanks to the graces of an organic rectifier, has long known of the presence of such a mechanism in the depths Downstairs, those depths beneath our very feet.’
‘I do not deny it,’ said Pokrov, seeing that his secret of centuries was betrayed, and that nothing was to be gained from mistruth or bluff. ‘But it does you no good to know as much. There are places Downstairs where nobody dare venture.’
‘Log Jaris would tell you differently,’ said Justina.
‘It pains me to have to contradict my Empress,’ said the bullman, ‘but Pokrov does not speak idly.’
There then began a heated debate on the merits of venturing to the more terrifying parts of the underfoot underworld. Chegory Guy had much to say on this subject, for the redskinned Ebrell Islander had wandered much in the realms of mystery, and had once been poisoned with zen in a catacomb below decks. Aquitaine Varazchavardan opined that he would not care to venture the greater depths himself. And as for Pelagius Zozimus, why, he had the most terrifying tales to recount, for he had twice or thrice come near to disaster Downstairs.
Had it been given the luxury of infinite time, doubtless this gathering would in time have reached reasonable, rational conclusions; and would have developed a sound scheme for exploring the depths Downstairs by finger- lengths or by proxy. But, unbeknownst to the members of this conclave, time was fast running out.
Why?
Because the Empress Justina, manoeuvring to prevent riot, had brought upon herself that which she had sought to avoid.
To be precise:
Hostages had been taken to compel the cooperation of the Narapatorpabarta Bank. Then, once the blackmailing Nixorjapretzel Rat had been lured into a trap by a carefully engineered run on the N’barta, Justina had automatically released those hostages. But by then the bank had been effectively ruined, so that, on his release, the
