Was she deluding herself?
Perhaps.
But:
‘Everyone deserves a chance,’ said Justina firmly.
So saying, the Empress took a feather and whisked away the ants. Then treasured the egg on to a piece of blotting paper which she placed upon a saucer. She put the saucer atop the rocky island which rose from the limpid depths of her fish tank. That would surely secure the egg from assault by ants.
‘But,’ said Justina, voicing that single word as she contemplated the exquisite vulnerability of the egg.
Yes. But. Attack might still come from the air. Who knows? Supposing the egg was hatched by night? Supposing mosquitoes attacked the tiny egg-wet hatchling? The Empress had a horrifying vision of a helpless newborn dragonet being monstered by a dozen or more merciless vampiric insects.
‘The poor thing would perish!’ said Justina.
That she talked so persistently to herself on this occasion is no mystery. Her position was one of exquisite loneliness, for she could trust few and bare her soul to no-one. Such are the burdens of imperial power, though we should not necessarily pity the powerful on that account; after all, many a beggar endures deprivations of the soul equally as agonizing, yet without enjoying any of the many concomitant consolations.
(A pedant might argue that the Empress had lost power entirely. But this would be a misreading. She still commanded the loyalty of certain powerful people, hence would be a source of hope for her allies and a danger to her enemies until she was very definitely dead.)
‘Well,’ said Justina. ‘Mosquitoes are no match for me!’
Then she went to her sewing room and sought out netting of the finest mesh, impervious to ants and mosquitoes alike. This she stretched across the top of her fish tank, anchoring the fabric with four of her finest soljamimpambagoya rocks. She took the greatest of pleasure imaginable in this work of her hands, simple work soon brought to decisive ends; in work she found a welcome forgetting of the woes of the world and the urgencies of the moment.
Then she sat down to watch the egg.
‘A beautiful thing,’ said she.
It was.
‘And to think!’ said she. ‘The mother delinquent! The egg besieged by ants!’
Then it occurred to her that some mishap might have befallen the mother. The valorous Untunchilamon might be dead. If so, then this egg might be the sole hope of an entire race.
‘Oh my!’ said Justina, momentarily overwhelmed by her awesome responsibility. ‘A new species! And this its sole chance of posterity!’
She was so overcome that she thought it best to take a little wine to settle her nerves. This she did, though whether her recourse to such a potent drug was wise is an open question. True, the Empress Justina had the statutory authority to order a Prescription for any or all. And it must be admitted that she had the most impeccable of academic qualifications to back such authority, since she was the proud possessor of a degree from the College of Medicine. Nevertheless, physicians tend to frown upon the self-prescription of controlled drugs, and with reason; for the abuse of such liberty is all too tempting, and can rapidly lead to the torments of addiction.
However, whether the Empress was wise or unwise to indulge herself with wine, it must be admitted that a modest quantity of this smooth-flowing fluid helped soothe her nerves remarkably. A deep and pervading calm possessed her as she gazed upon the opalescent egg and the shimmer-drift of the dragonfire fish which inhabited the aquarium. Without, perhaps the sky was falling; or perhaps it happened that the very world was ending. But here Justina enjoyed the meditations of the moment, that moment which, at any given time, is all the life we have to live.
After a second dole of such medicine, the Empress went to see whether Olivia was all right. She found the young Ashdan lass sound asleep in the imperial bed with the Princess Sabitha in her arms. That compliant creature of fur looked up as Justina entered.
‘You haven’t by chance seen a dragon?’ said Justina.
The Princess Sabitha yawned.
‘A small dragon,’ persisted the Empress. ‘A dragon no longer than this finger of mine.’
So saying, Justina Thrug waggled that appendage at the self-indulgent young royal. The Princess Sabitha smirked, but said nothing. And, further interrogation proving equally as fruitless, the Empress Justina laid herself down beside Olivia Qasaba and joined her in sleep.
Justina did not wake until Artemis Ingalawa returned with the news.
The bad news.
Ingalawa had visited the Temple of Torture to demand the return of the ‘skavamareen’ which Master Ek had confiscated. And she had been decisively rebuffed.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Until the burning of Injiltaprajura, Chegory Guy and Olivia Qasaba had ruled Untunchilamon by pretending they spoke for the Crab. But now all communication with the Crab had ceased — the harbour bridge had been destroyed and the island of Jod was under quarantine — all the citizens of Injiltaprajura realized that no orders were currently being issued by the monstrous crustacean of whom they were so afraid.
It will now be asked: who then was effectively ruling Injiltaprajura at this time? And the best answer is: nobody.
While one renowned historian has stated that ‘Injiltaprajura was ruled toward the end by the lawless banditry of the drummers’, such statements are a gross absurdity. The only bandit on Untunchilamon who could have ruled that city was Jal Japone, and that formidable Janjuladoola warlord was still keeping to his desert fastness in the northern regions of the island.
Within Injiltaprajura itself, a few people obeyed Wazir Trasilika because they feared him to be an appointee of Aldarch the Third. Take for example the case of Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek. The High Priest of the Temple of Zoz the Ancestral was such a prominent person in Untunchilamon that his activities would inevitably be reviewed by the Mutilator of Yestron.
Ek was at least half convinced that Trasilika was a fraud. Nevertheless, Ek had confirmed Trasilika as wazir (on a provisional basis).
Because Master Ek could not afford to take chances.
But others could.
Others felt free to reserve judgement altogether until Jean Froissart had been proved either true or false in trial by ordeal. If Froissart proved a true priest then they would accept Trasilika as wazir. Until then, they felt under no immediate obligation to pay the taxes or to obey any law which was unduly inconvenient.
While many reserved judgement, there were a few who were entirely certain about Trasilika. One such person was Juliet Idaho. And, on the morning of the day after Justina’s release from trial, Idaho discussed the advent of Trasilika with his wife as they went through their daybreak routines.
Juliet Idaho and his wife Harold had just moved into one of the grand houses in Lak Street, a mansion lying across the road from that huge ship-sized chunk of bone known as Pearl. The Empress Justina had placed the villa in Idaho’s care lest looters debauch the place; it belonged to a merchant who had disappeared on the night of Injiltaprajura’s great fire, so it was otherwise unprotected.
‘Trasilika,’ said Idaho, ‘He’s another false wazir. A fraud.’
He spoke with some savagery.
‘Never mind, darling,’ said Harold, lathering her face with soap suds.
‘I do mind,’ said Idaho. ‘I can’t stand frauds. I’m going to kill him.’
‘Maybe,’ said Harold, starting to shave, ‘you should ask Justina first.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘She might have a use for the man,’ said Harold.
‘Maybe,’ said Idaho. ‘I’ll check. Then I’ll kill him. And that fool Froissart!’
