For Shabble, my dears, cannot be hurt by anyone or anything as puny as Master Ek; and, to the great increase of his rage, Ek had to acknowledge as much. By way of compensation, Ek began devising the special tortures with which he would destroy Jean Froissart once Froissart had failed his trial by torture.
Did some psychic communication take place?
Did Froissart feel Master Ek’s enmity, despite the distance between them?
This question cannot be answered with any degree of certainty; nevertheless, it must be recorded that a spasm of especial pain fractured Jean Froissart’s chest as Ek planned Froissart’s destruction.
By that time, the child of Wen Endex was in the pink palace atop Pokra Ridge, beginning an audience with the Empress Justina.
‘Are you all right?’ said Justina, seeing pain writ clear across Froissart’s face.
‘Yes,’ said Froissart. ‘It’s just a — indigestion or something.’
‘You must see my physician,’ said Justina. ‘Koskini Reni, he’s an amazing man. He’s a prescription for everything, if not always a cure. I’ll give you an introduction as soon as our business is finished. But — now that we’re talking about business, what is it you want?’
‘To confirm our arrangements for tonight,’ said Froissart.
‘Come now,’ said Justina. ‘We’ve been through all that. I’ll give you a magic salve to let you hold the heated iron with ease. There won ’t be any pain, no pain at all.’ ‘My confidence would be increased if I could — if I could see this magic salve.’
‘Very well then,’ said Justina.
She delved into her handbag and rummaged about within for some time, at last producing a small oval box. She opened it. And displayed a smear of green grease.
‘This is my magic salve,’ said Justina. ‘It will allow you to pick up the iron even when it’s hot enough to make water boil. Or hotter.’
Froissart was reassured to actually sight the magic salve which had been promised to him. Still:
‘My confidence,’ he said, ‘would be enhanced by a test of such power.’
‘But,’ said Justina, ‘there is only enough for one use.’ ‘Then,’ s aid Froissart, struggling to retain his composure, ‘perhaps you could reassure me by telling me the provenance of this substance. Where it c omes from, for example. And what guarantees you have of its purity.’
‘I made it myself,’ said Justina. ‘Surely you could have guessed that yourself. I’m a witch, as you know.’
‘I know no such thing,’ said Froissart, ‘hence am inclined to doubt the powers of your magic salve. If you made it, why can’t you make more?’
‘I can, I can,’ said Justina. ‘But the blood of a basilisk is an essential ingredient for such cookery, and Injiltaprajura has not seen a basilisk for the last six years.’
‘That’s as may be,’ said Froissart. ‘But if you have powers of witchcraft, you can prove them to me here and now. Somehow. If not by making a fire-salve, then by some other method. I need proof. Proof if I am to believe.’
‘You’ve proof already,’ said Justina. ‘After all, you brought a warrant from Aldarch Three commanding my execution on that account. A witch, said the warrant. I saw it myself. That’s why I was to be killed.’
‘True,’ said Froissart. ‘But, by a witch, we usually mean merely a woman who has intruded on the realms of men.’ ‘And what,’ said Justin a, ‘be those realms?’ Whereupon Froissart, who had a didactic bent, sa id: ‘War, law, business-’
‘Enough!’ said Justina, cutting him off. ‘You need proof? Very well. I will give you a demonstration of a witch’s magic. Here I have three glasses. Do you want to handle them?’
‘Please,’ said Froissart.
They were squat drinking glasses. Not wine glasses or tea glasses, or soup glasses. Just ordinary water glasses. (Though here the word ‘ordinary’ applies to those beakers as they were seen by Froissart, who had long been acquainted with wealth, and as they were perceived by Justina, who used them daily in the palace imperial. To the hovel-dwellers of Lubos or the slumland children of Marthandorthan, any item made of glass would have seemed the most extravagant wonder imaginable.)
‘Well,’ said Justina. ‘Do you believe I can cause these glasses to fill themselves up with wine?’
‘By pouring wine from a bottle, yes.’
‘No, silly boy! By magic. Do you believe I can fill them with wine by magic?’ ‘Frankly, no,’ said Froissart.
‘Then watch,’ said Justina, placing the three glasses on the table.
The vitric beakers sat there in a row, the end glasses inverted, the central glass the right way up. Justina made three mystic passes over the glasses. Then watched them as a scorpion watches the dung beetle it plans to claim as its victim.
‘Well,’ said Froissart, ‘I see no wine.’
‘The operation of magic takes time,’ whispered the Empress. ‘Time. And silence. Wait!’
But Froissart saw nothing out of the ordinary. Only three glasses sitting on a table. He said as much.
‘Very well,’ said the Empress, briskly. ‘Now watch this. I take hold of two glasses, thus. Two, note, not one. I flip-flop these two. Then I take my hands off.’
The Empress Justina had flip-flopped the middle glass and one of the end glasses. In consequence, the central glass was now inverted and one of the end glasses the right way up.
‘You see?’ said Justina triumphantly.
‘I’m not blind,’ said Froissart. ‘But-’
‘But watch!’
The Empress took hold of the two inverted glasses and flip-flopped them so they were both standing the right way up. All three glasses were now standing the right way up.
‘There!’ she said. ‘I flip-flopped two at once.’
‘So?’ said Froissart in bewilderment. ‘So what’s this got to do with wine?’
Surely the heat had got to the imperial head.
‘That comes later,’ said Justina. ‘This is magic enough to be going on with. Two flip-flops, that’s what I did. You saw? By flip-flopping two glasses at a time I managed to make all three stand up the right way.’
‘But — but this is lunacy!’ said Froissart. ‘That’s not magic! That’s not even a trick.’
‘Isn’t it?’ said Justina.
She flip-flopped the end two glasses.
‘See? Two inverted, one the right way up. I flip-flopped two glasses thrice to get two down, one up.’
‘So?’ said Froissart.
Justina rearranged the glasses.
‘You try,’said she.
‘Oh, come on,’ said Froissart. ‘I outgrew kindergarten years ago.’
‘Indulge me,’ said Justina, a smile upon her lips. ‘Indulge me. You might be surprised.’
‘Very well,’ said Froissart irritably, reaching for the nearest glass.
Justina slapped down his hand.
‘First, the rules,’ said she. ‘Do it as I did it. Two glasses at a time. You must flip-flop both. After three such manipulations, you must have two glasses inverted, one upright. Two down, one up.’
‘Child’s play,’ said Froissart scornfully.
In his youth, Jean Froissart had sat for the competitive examinations which controlled entry to the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association. He had failed to win a place in that institution, but nevertheless his marks had been high. His marks had proved him, beyond a doubt, to be a Certified Genius.
So it should be — easy?
There was something wrong here.
Experimentally, Froissart tumbled two glasses. Then another two. Then He couldn’t see how to get all three upright.
‘I made a mistake,’ he said.
‘Never mind,’ said Justina. ‘We’ll try again.’
And she put them back to the starting position. Froissart tried ag ain.
Failed.
‘The third time,’ said Justina. ‘The final time. Try. But think before you try.’
