‘We need to retrieve the skavamareen which Master Ek is holding in the Temple of Torture. The Crab will not be pleased if its delivery is delayed.’
‘I will go to the Temple and see to its release immediately,’ said Ingalawa.
Ingalawa knew, as did Justina, that there was scarcely one chance in ten thousand that Master Ek would hand over the ‘skavamareen’. It was far more likely that the High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral guessed this ancient instrument to be an organic rectifier. And that, in hope of making himself immortal, he meant to hold on to it.
But it was worth trying the bluff.
After all, they were so close to triumph.
They had an organic rectifier.
All they needed now was to take the thing to Jod.
Then the Crab could be converted to human form, and in gratitude the Crab would surely exert all its Powers to solve their problems.
Artemis Ingalawa departed on her mission, all signs of fatigue successfully subdued.
‘I want to go home,’ said Olivia, who as yet was unaware of the doom which had befallen the Dromdanjerie.
So then the poor child had to be told (by Dardanalti) that Injiltaprajura’s bedlam had been burnt to the ground; and that her father, the eminent Ashdan therapist Jon Qasaba, was missing, believed dead.
This final tragedy devastated the Ashdan lass. Her father! Dead? Impossible. She could not believe he was dead for he was her father, her very own, and death was something which only happened to other people’s fathers. But certainly he was missing. And poor Chegory was trapped leagues underground with that huge therapist thing, a monster worse than a spider, a shark and an octopus rolled into one.
Olivia broke down and wept.
The Empress Justina took Olivia in hand. Then the Empress led the child to the imperial quarters. Two soldiers were standing on guard outside the door. For years these men had given their loyalty to Justina. But now?
‘Whom do you obey?’ said Justina.
Assaulting them with the question just so. Bluntly. No preliminary questions, no enquiries after their meals and pay, no smiles or hellos. The strain was telling on the Empress, hence the deterioration in her manners.
‘We obey Manthandros Trasilika, the duly authorized wazir sent to take command of Untunchilamon,’ said one of the soldiers stiffly.
‘And me?’ said Justina.
‘In so far as a wazir’s guest can command a soldier.’
‘A guest, am I?’ said Justina, her temper rising.
‘So I am told,’ said the soldier. ‘I ask no more. I am a soldier. I exist only to obey.’
Justina had a thing or two she wanted to say in reply to that. But one glance at Olivia told the Empress this was no time to make a scene. The child needed safety, comfort, the assurance of some kind of peace, at least for the moment. So, without another word to either of the soldiers, Justina led Olivia into the imperial quarters.
They had been looted.
Some diligent staff members had endeavoured to clean up the mess, and had done so to the best of their ability. But still the evidence of ruin was everywhere. A great many things had been wantonly torn and destroyed, including much which was beautiful. That made Justina furious. Theft she could understand, but not vandalism.
An unaccustomed trembling afflicted the imperial limbs as Justina went into her bedroom and realized what had been done there. The place had been cleaned and the bed linen changed, but a certain stench still lingered.
‘How dare they!’ said Justina.
Olivia picked at a shattered mirror which threw back their faces in pieces. Olivia pried away one of her own eyes. Then threw down the shattering of mirror-glass.
‘There’s a spare bedroom,’ said Justina, opening another door. ‘In here.’
A drift of chicken feathers stirred around the imperial feet as Justina entered that chamber. The feathers indicated that one of Theodora’s chickens (or more than one?) had met an untimely end in this room. On the spare bed, the Princess Sabitha was curled up, comfortably devoting herself to digestion. As the Empress entered, the princess woke, stretched, and yawned. She looked very, very pleased with herself.
‘I don’t believe you’ve met,’ said Justina. ‘Olivia, this is Sabitha Winolathon Taskinjathrua. Sabitha, meet Olivia.’
So saying, the Empress removed the Princess Sabitha from the imperial bed and conveyed her to Olivia’s arms. Considering the heat of the day, one might think that the least desirable of all possible presents would be an idiothermous cat stuffed with chicken. But Olivia took the Princess Sabitha into her arms, hugged her, and was comforted by the possession of this new friend.
‘If you want to lie down on the bed,’ said Justina, ‘feel free. I have to check my study.’
Olivia did lie down, and Justina did check the study. It was strangely untouched, probably because it was the poorest room in the imperial quarters. But something was missing. The dragon. The dragon Untunchilamon. There was no sign of that fingerlength beast. Instead, the dragon’s nest of cat’s fur and feather-fluff held an ovoid opal, a thing curiously flecked with bits of black.
‘A present?’ said Justina.
Perhaps someone had stolen her dragon and had left the bright-brilliant opal as a guilt offering.
Justina bent closer to appraise the gem. Then saw the bits of black were not flecks at all. They were ants! But why would ants attack an inedible stone? Out of madness?
‘Good gracious!’ said Justina. ‘It must be an egg!’
And a long-lost memory stirred. A traumatic memory from her girlhood when she had tried to raise a chrysalis to its butterfly glory. That had been in Wen Endex at the height of summer. (Yes, Wen Endex had a summer, and fierce heat to go with it, for all that Justina chose to remember it as a place of snowbound winter.) Ants had laid siege to the helpless pupa, and the butterfly had died unborn. Had died a hideous, disgusting death which had left Justina red-eyed and weeping.
‘Such was your triumph,’ said Justina, addressing the ants in a stern and terrible voice. ‘Such was your triumph when I was but a child. But you behold me now as a woman!’
Then she tried to blow the ants away:
Wwwwwssssh!
A dozen nest-feathers kicked to the air then snow-drifted down. But the ants blew away not, but clung tight to the sheer and the smooth of the egg. In truth a mighty feat! Indeed, the obstinacy of ants in the face of winds natural or otherwise is one of the very wonders of the universe.
‘You can’t win, you know,’ said Justina.
And was tempted to crush the ants out of hand, obliterating their paltry lives entirely. She resisted the temptation, though not without a struggle.
‘But you will be displaced,’ said she.
Indeed.
But, once displaced, the ants could always come back again.
‘A problem,’ said Justina, wondering how to guard the egg till it hatched.
She could always call in her soldiers. Yes, and have them stand watch by sun and moon alike, guarding the egg with chopsticks and stabs until at last and at length it hatched. But such trifling with masculine pride might well provoke mutiny.
Besides…
They might say the ‘wazir’s guest’ had no right to order them to such duties.
‘And, in any case…
Maybe the egg would never hatch.
With more than a touch of disappointment, Justina realized the egg was most unlikely to be viable. For the bright-brave dragon Untunchilamon was unique, created ab initio by a demon. She lacked a mate hence the egg could not have been fertilized.
‘Yet,’ said Justina, ‘parthenogenesis is always a possibility.’
