‘She wouldn’t!’ said Shabble. ‘She doesn’t know how!’ ‘She might k now how,’ said Uckermark. ‘You don’t want to be made a slave, do you n ow?’
‘No,’ said Shabble, conceding the point. ‘I don’t.’
To preserve Shabble’s freedom, it was best for Shabble to stay away from anyone who might know the secret of Shabble-commanding; this secret consisting simply of the knowledge that Shabble can be compelled to obey by a threat of imminent therapy.
Uckermark felt somewhat guilty at keeping Shabble from going to the trial. After all, Shabble could have saved the Empress. Could have burnt up soldiers left, right and centre. Could have incinerated Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek in the blink of an eye. Could have rescued one and all, restoring liberty to Untunchilamon.
But… Shabble was not reliable.
The bouncing bubble had no sense of responsibility whatsoever. Having terrorized Justina’s enemies, Shabble might easily have taken it into Shabbleself s head to go on a two-week flying fish hunt; or to fly to Chay for the kite-burning festival; or to go to visit Jal Japone in the wastelands of Zolabrik. All of which would have left Uckermark completely vulnerable to the vengeance of any surviving enemies.
These fears which Uckermark so vigorously entertained were by no means idle, but instead were thoroughly supported by history. In the past, a variety of unprincipled rogues had from time to time tempted, persuaded or commanded Shabble to unlawful actions, but all had met with dreadful fates when Injiltaprajura’s miniature sun deserted them out of fecklessness or forgetfulness.
There was also another consideration.
Never in the past had Shabble’s powers been tested against the combined strength of the Cabal House. Despite Shabble’s many sins and errors, the demon of Jod had never done anything heinous enough to call down the united wrath of Injiltaprajura’s wonderworkers upon its sphericity. But if Shabble were to free the Empress and kill her enemies, that might well precipitate a confrontation between the friend of the flying fish and the sorcerers of Untunchilamon; and Uckermark was by no means sure that Shabble would win such a battle.
Right now, Uckermark had a sure thing going, so he was in no mood to chance his life by daring a face-to- face fight-it-out wipe-the-floor-with-the-dead confrontation with Master Ek and Ek’s allies. So, while he did feel guilty about it, Uckermark kept the High Priest of the Cult of the Holy Cockroach from attending the trial.
However, most other people of any importance were on their way to the pink palace shortly after dawn. These spectators included the plague inspector, pilot, ladipti man and harbour master, and the representative of the Combined Religious Guild. Consequently, when a vessel sailed into the Laitemata shortly after Justina’s trial resumed — this vessel being a newcoming ship of the Trade Fleet — the customary greeting party was not on hand to intercept it.
But Shabble was there.
And so was Uckermark.
For these dignitaries of the Cult of the Holy Cockroach made a point of boarding each new ship to preach the Doctrines.
In terms of its agreement with Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek, the Cult was currently unable to accept new members. For the moment, the entrance rolls were closed. The Cult was a Closed Congregation. But that might one day change; and, in any case, Shabble liked meeting new people, and Uckermark knew there were often commercial advantages to be won from being first to greet a new ship.
This is how it happened.
The newcoming ship dropped anchor in a harbour otherwise utterly empty of any significant sailpower. The crew lined the decks and gazed with astonishment upon the devastated city, which looked for all the world as if a herd of firedrakes had ravaged it at will.
As the wind had been blowing from the south-west when the mob had indulged itself in a day and a night of looting and arson (a factor which had favoured the survival of Marthandorthan), those ships which had fled the Laitemata had naturally chosen to escape up the eastern side of Untunchilamon; whereas the newcoming ship had been venturing down the western coast. It follows that the strangers had no advance news of Injiltaprajura’s disaster.
They therefore greeted the arrival of Shabble’s canoe with the greatest of curiosity.
Nobody went shipboard with Shabble but the corpse-master Uckermark. Shabble needed no bodyguards, for sword and crossbow alike were weapons incapable of harming the Holy One. Nor could Shabble be harmed by fire, for the shining one was perfectly capable of staying as cool as ice in a raging furnace. While there were weapons Downstairs which could have injured Shabble most grievously, for practical purposes the master of verbal delights was effectively immortal in the face of any wrath likely to be encountered in the light of the sun.
When the Holy One and his lawyer boarded the ship, the crew crowded around them with a thousand questions. But order was at last restored; the crew fell back; and two foreigners stepped forward to greet their guests.
One of these foreigners was a man in his forties whereas the other was a decade or more younger. It was the older man who spoke first.
‘Where is the harbour master?’ said he, addressing Uckermark and ignoring Shabble entirely. ‘And where the ladipti man?’
‘Elsewhere,’ said Shabble brightly.
‘Where elsewhere?’
‘We should be asking the questions,’ said Uckermark. ‘This is our harbour.’
‘And this is my ship! Who are you?’
‘I,’ said Shabble proudly, ‘am the High Priest of the Holy Cockroach.’
The corpse-master Uckermark introduced himself as Shabble’s legal counsel, then asked:
‘Who are you?’
‘I,’ said his interlocuter, ‘am Manthandros Trasilika. I am the new wazir of Untunchilamon.’
‘And I,’ said his companion, ‘am Jean Froissart.’
‘Your resurrection has changed your appearance remarkably,’ said Uckermark dryly.
‘My what?’ said Trasilika in astonishment.
‘Your resurrection,’ said Uckermark. ‘Have you not heard? You’ve been killed already. Yet you have returned, though in different flesh entirely.’
Both the foreigners were children of Wen Endex.
But in place of the well-muscled heavyweight who had been executed in the Temple of Torture, there was a paunched, obese glutton. And the previous Jean Froissart had been replaced with a square-jawed model of stronger build which had not the weak and watering ever-blinking eyes of the original, but gazed on the world instead with bitter and relentless tension.
‘Yes,’ squeaked Shabble, ‘they’ve changed a lot. But they’ll die the same as the others.’
‘I know not what trick of ventriloquism animates the voice of your shining bubble,’ said Trasilika, ‘but I do know that I am not amused.’
‘The bubble is not mine,’ said Uckermark. ‘I am its. It is the High Priest of the Cult of the Holy Cockroach, as I have said. You would do well to speak of it and to it politely.’
‘I’ll speak as I like,’ said Trasilika wrathfully. ‘I am the rightful wazir of Untunchilamon.’
‘Oh yes, I’m sure,’ said Uckermark. ‘The rightful wazir. The last wazir of Bolfrigalaskaptiko, no doubt.’ ‘Indeed!’ said Trasilika.
‘Well, so was the last one, or so he said. The last wazir, I mean. He came here using a name identical to your own. A name nice enough, I suppose, but he still lost his head. Have you ever heard of a man called Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek?’
‘Of course,’ said Manthandros Trasilika. ‘He rules the temple of Zoz the Ancestral on Untunchilamon. He is the High Priest of the Source who will confirm me as wazir.’
And pulled from his pocket a miniature portrait showing a wizened oldster with the strangest eyes of pale orange flecked with green.
‘Strange,’ said Uckermark. ‘The last Manthandros Trasilika had a portrait just like this one.’
‘Master Ek is no stranger in Yestron,’ said Trasilika. ‘Obooloo remembers Ek well.’
‘As Obooloo will remember you, too,’ said Uckermark. ‘In times to come, Obooloo will remember you as
