Ek told him so once they had returned to the interrogation chamber.
‘You have passed,’ said Ek.
Then he smiled.
At least, his mouth smiled. So did his eyes. But his ears and his eyebrows did not.
‘A penitent thanks the lord who serves the Lord of Lords,’ said Froissart formally.
‘Your thanks are welcome,’ said Ek. ‘Will you share a drink with me?’
‘With pleasure,’ said Froissart.
Ek tried to snap his fingers. He failed, and a spasm of pain shot through his hand. He cursed his arthritis, and said:
‘The drinks.’
An acolyte entered bearing a small tray on which there were two cups. Ek took one and sipped slowly. Froissart took the other and drank, but more rapidly.
‘Strong stuff,’ said he in surprise.
‘But good,’ said Ek.
Then he waited.
But, to Ek’s surprise, Froissart did not collapse on the ground in a babbling heap. Instead, he calmly drank down the rest of his drink.
To conceal his confusion, Ek lit a fresh cigarette. Somehow, this damnable Froissart had made himself immune to the poisons which had just been used on him. There were ways to do that, of course. The taking of an antidote. Or the swallowing of graduated doses to build up immunity. Ek drew upon his cigarette. Exhaled smoke. Thinking.
Watching Ek smoke, Froissart briefly wondered whether the old man was a dragon in disguise. Then he dismissed the notion. He tried to speak, but found it an effort. Ek’s silence was of such intensity that it took courage to venture to breach it.
‘My lord,’ said Froissart, finding that courage, ‘before I go, I wish to have leave to make a petition.’
Ek said nothing, so Froissart rushed on:
‘Might I possibly be excused from tonight’s trial by ordeal?’
Did the quality of Ek’s silence change? Froissart fancied it did. And the change was not for the better. Frankly, Froissart was afraid. Afraid? He was terrified. Of Ek, and the murderous potential of the High Priest’s powers. Of Justina, too. Could he trust the Thrug? He didn’t think so. Her assurances seemed sincere, but… no, he couldn’t trust her. Even if she was committed to his survival, there was so much that could go wrong. He might get hurt. He might get killed on the spot.
Ek sighed.
‘Jean Froissart,’ said Ek, ‘you disappoint me. Untunchilamon urgently needs the rule of a wazir. But we cannot take chances. Your Trasilika must prove himself true. If you will not venture to provide proof by enduring trial by ordeal, then there is another way. You could drink of a formula made by compounding zen with certain other substances which you surely know as well as I do.’ Ek paused, then continued: ‘The formula of which I speak is renowned as a truth drug.’
‘I regret,’ said Froissart, ‘that poison was one of the many dangers which assailed both Trasilika and myself in Bolfrigalaskaptiko. We both have a resistance to the compound to which you allude.’
‘How unfortunate,’ said Ek. ‘That being so, do you still wish to be excused from your trial by ordeal?’
Froissart hesitated.
Then:
‘Yes,’ said Froissart. ‘I do ask to be so excused.’
‘You wish to be excused the trial by ordeal,’ said Ek, with infinite weariness.
‘I do,’ said Jean Froissart.
‘On what grounds?’
‘Because I have proved myself true by my knowledge of doctrine. I have proved myself in interrogation.’
‘You have shown yourself to be possessed of a good memory,’ said Ek. ‘Nothing more. Your request is denied. Go!’
Froissart went.
Once out in the street, he felt a spasm of wrenching pain shock through his chest. He clutched the sweating flesh. Surely he was going to die.
The stones of the street sighed and chirruped. Purple light squeaked as it escaped from cracks in the fabric of reality. The sky swelled, buckled, burst and reformed. Froissart knew exactly what was happening to him. Ek must have slipped him a truly massive dose of oola. And now the stuff was having an (albeit delayed) effect.
Oola?
This concoction, otherwise known as babble-tongue, has as its main active ingredient the dreaded drug zen. Oola has some reputation as a truth drug, but its main effect is to cause hallucinations (and, sometimes, madness).
The chemical regime which Froissart had followed in Bolfrigalaskaptiko (he had spoken truthfully to Ek about this matter) gave him some partial protection against the effects of the oola he had consumed. Though the sun pulsated and his feet appeared to have turned into buckets of slugmeat, he nevertheless managed to struggle up Goldhammer Rise. A beggar nagged along behind him until at last, hoping to be free of this encumbrance, Froissart dispensed a coin.
A coin?
A dragon!
Once in possession of that golden disk, the beggar redoubled his efforts, determined not to let go of this source of profit. Other beggars joined the procession. And, when Froissart refused to dispense further largesse (he had meant to give the first man a damn, not a dragon) they mugged him.
Froissart, somewhat the worse for his mugging, struggled uphill to Lak Street then began the weary trek to Pokra Ridge. He was devastated. Manthandros Trasilika had assured him their takeover of Untunchilamon would be easy, so easy. And so it should have been! They deserved such a reward for faithfully serving Aldarch the Third all through the years of Talonsklavara. Instead, their profit-taking adventure was turning into a living nightmare.
Meanwhile, Master Ek was meditating alone.
Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek had been sitting in solitude in the Temple of Torture ever since Froissart’s departure.
He was puzzling over a conundrum.
Jean Froissart seemed to doubt his ability to survive the trial by ordeal. But this was strange. If Froissart was not sure of his ability to pass such a test, why had he volunteered for it in the first place?
Ek had yet to puzzle out the answer to this when one of his acolytes intruded upon the masterly solitude, claiming to have some new and important intelligence.
‘Of what?’ said Ek.
‘Of Shabble’s plans.’
‘What is it that Shabble plans?’ said Ek.
‘A — a festival,’ said the acolyte.
‘Festival?’
‘On the day of the Festival of Light. Shabble means to sacrifice a loaf of cassava bread and two fruit flies to the greater glory of the Holy Cockroach.’
‘That — that monstrous bubble!’ said Ek.
As invective goes, this was scarcely effective, and surely it represents a totally inadequate response to the blasphemy which Shabble planned to perpetrate. But Ek was labouring under a difficulty, for it is difficult to curse Shabble when the bright and bouncing imitator of suns lacks a face which can be insulted or ancestors who can be denigrated.
Nevertheless, let no mistake be made. Master Ek was furious, and determined then and there to have a reckoning with Shabble one of these days; or, if not with Shabble, then with Shabble’s priests, lawyers, advisers and congregation.
When Ek’s anger at last diminished, he started thinking of practical ways in which Shabble could be punished in Shabbleselfs own person, and he came up with Nothing.
